


The Children's Home Boys

by rotrude



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: M/M, Minor Character Deaths, Mourning, under age (15/16 and 17/nearly 16)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-01
Updated: 2012-09-01
Packaged: 2017-11-13 08:35:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 47,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/501538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rotrude/pseuds/rotrude
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for this kinkme_merlin prompt with minor modifications: <i>Arthur/Merlin, modern AU</i></p><p>
  <i>They grew up together in an orphanage, never adopted. It's basically them against the world, as best friends, lovers as they get older. Even when they turn 18, they stick together since they only have each other. Eventually, they get their happy forever.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Children's Home Boys

It's pouring outside, rain water forming puddles in the courtyard. The puddles wrinkle in the wind and minature wavelets stir their mirror stillness. These puddles are scummed with empty lights, reflecting the colour of the sky. A dark and dull grey.

The rain itself shines silvery when it falls in big gusts.

Because of it, Arthur has been told to stay inside, not to roam the garden and get soaked, but he's getting bored. 

There's nothing to do till the others come back from school or work and Arthur doesn't do well alone. So he watches, hands on the window panes, fingers fanned wide. This way he can trace the shape of his prints in the condensation. There's lots of his prints on the window, fading or on their way to, drops of water blurring their edges.

No matter what Grunhilda says about taking his paws off the windows she has to painstakingly clean, Arthur just loves to play this game. And does it every time she isn't around to shout at him.

Unrepentant, Arthur places his fingers into the shapes he's left behind. He's very precise about making the margins collide, tallying the shape of his real hand to the imprint of it left on the cool surface. It's a game of his. A game of tag. He's dogging his own trails.

As he plays his game, he watches the rain fall outside.

On the ground dark patches of mud begin to appear where the soil from the flower beds gets blown on the gravel. The roses and creepers clustering around the borders and climbing up one side of the house bow under the fat raindrops. Other raindrops cling to stems and petals, each a tiny star. A transparent bubble. Like Christmas baubles.

Unlike Christmas, when they get taken places, rainy days are sad and boring.

And creepy.

The tree standing to the side of the property stands solid, even though its branches shake and call out in the wind, its slender white trunk gleaming in the downpour. Leaves shimmer and boughs drip.

As Arthur thought, ghostly.

A car chugs up the drive. It's sleek and black. It looks very official. The rain bounces off the hood, tyres splash in the puddles. The brackish puddles fill with the mud sticking to the tyres and become gooey brownish pools.

The car parked, its back passenger door opens and Mr Taliesin gets out. A boy hops out after him, legs too short to negotiate the gap between the car's back seat and the ground.

The boy is smaller than Arthur. He definitely is. And not just in size. He's thin and his legs are tiny little twigs that could belong to the stick men Arthur sometimes draws. His hair is as dark as Arthur's light, falling over his forehead and curling out on his neck like babies' hair does. His coat is soggy and looks as if it's sticky on the shoulders.

Arthur watches as Taliesin opens an umbrella and shepherds the boy inside by the shoulder.

Arthur can see the resistance in the boy, how he's digging his heels in at first, how he looks up at the house and the man dwarfing him as though he wants to go back home. Arthur could tell him that from now on there was no going back but of course he can't because there's a lot of space between them. And a closed window.

Arthur sees Mr Taliesin and Merlin disappear into the house and it doesn't take the sound of footsteps creaking on the back stairs and pattering down the corridor to tell him he won't be alone for long. The door to the room Arthur's in opens with a gentle swish. Arthur doesn't turn around; he keeps on with his game of keeping tabs on the prints his fingers left on the window panes.

“Arthur,” says Mr Taliesin, “get down from that ledge and say hi to our new guest.”

Arthur doesn't but hears the noise of soles scuffing on the carpet. If Grunhilda were here the boy would get a big telling off. His shoes have to be muddy.

“Arthur,” Mr Taliesin says again, sterner. “Merlin is our new guest. He's in residential care like you. I thought you would like to say hi to him.”

Arthur doesn't want to really. Even if Merlin's to stay. He does turn when Merlin says, “I want to go home now.”

“You can't,” Arthur says, correcting the little boy. Going by his way of talking, he's definitely younger than Arthur. He sounds small and whiny. Besides, from up close, he looks little. He's still got chubby knees like the toddlers that come and go from The Round Table do. Though he's way thinner than most of them even.

The rest of him, aside from his knees, is. Even his face isn't as round as the ones belonging to those kids. But maybe it's those paddle ears. They make his face look smaller by comparison. “Because what Mr Taliesin said means that you have no one to go back to. You're stuck here.”

Mr Taliesin pushes his lips together like the fish in the room Arthur occupies does. “Don't be rude, Arthur,” he says. “You're upsetting Merlin.”

Arthur wants to scoff but stops when he sees that Merlin's face has crumpled in the ugliest way possible. He's all red and his eyes are very watery. More watery than Miss Mithian's are when she's got allergies. All in all Merlin looks a bit scary now. The frown lines on his forehead make him look old as the war veteran down the road and his lips are pursed in a stuck-out pout. And then Merlin's saying, “I want to go back to my mum.”

That's a sentence Mr Taliesin doesn't reply to. Arthur understands the reason behind his silence and Merlin seems to do too since he's crying a squall of tears now. Like a little baby. Arthur says so and adds, “Your mum must be dead just like mine.”

That doesn't pacify Merlin in the least. It gets him to crash down in the middle of the room. He's holding onto one shoe, mud and all, as he knuckles his eyes. Merlin's crying with all the strength of his lungs, heaving big sobs in the pauses between his louder wailing. Merlin's indignation flames high on his cheeks, which get purple as the ripe plums the lady from Ofsted gives him when she comes to see Arthur.

Merlin's heart is pounding in his throat, snot and tears wetting his upper lip as his tears are his cheeks. Racking sobs that must be cramping his stomach take Merlin over.

There's no restraint to Merlin's crying. Arthur goggles at Merlin's display of sorrow, utterly confused by it. A good little soldier doesn't cry, does he? Arthur opens and closes his mouth but he can't say he doesn't understand Mr Taliesin's rumpled brow when he sees it.

Mr Taliesin picks Merlin up and Merlin buries his face in the old man's neck. Taliesin’s eyes widen when Merlin does. Arthur's pretty sure that he'll put Merlin down, put off by the closeness, when he's surprised to find that Mr Taliesin won't. He cups Merlin's neck with hesitant fingers, scowls at Arthur, making his message more than clear, and turns on his heels, calling out for Mithian's help.

Arthur doesn't see Merlin for the rest of the afternoon. He's not there when Grunhilda serves tea and crackers – pity, there's jam tonight – he's not there when telly time comes, when the older kids that have just made it back from school or work gather before the old TV set and wrestle for dominance of the best spot, and he isn't there for dinner.

Over that particular meal Arthur seeks out the eyes of the grown-ups, trying to read Merlin's fate in them. They can't have found someone for him on such short notice, can they? If they had someone to send him to – at all – then they would have right at the start.

And Mr Taliesin wouldn't have used the big words that mean you have no one. Big words like Residential Care. Once a little girl called Helen -- the daughter of a woman the little girl herself called an 'artiste', a word Arthur still hasn't figured out -- spent a few months with them. Then Helen's mum had, according to Helen, cleaned up and she was sent back home. But that was the only time someone ever stayed less than six months.

Mr Taliesin isn't dining with them tonight so trying to suss him out is out of the question. Grunhilda and Mithian are there though.

Grunihilda is wearing her usual frown and Mithian, who's looking way more gentle, is only picking at her food. She must be worried about something. She always gets like that when something happens or the big words are bandied out. Words like Lack of Funds or Child Focused Intervention.

As for the other boys and girls they surely know nothing. Gwaine is being loud, as usual, saying things like, “If you come up to my room I'll cheer you right up, Mithian.

Just as usual Mithian doesn't pay any attention to Gwaine, not past an eye-roll.

Arthur could have told Gwaine that Mithian has a perfectly nice boyfriend that comes to pick her up once or twice a week after work. He doesn't like windows for nothing. But he doesn't bother with more than a snigger this time. Mostly because Gwaine would say, “What would you know about those things, Sprout?”, which thing always makes Arthur angry, and because Arthur has much more important business to think about right now.

He must understand what's happened to Merlin. Something bad must have or he'd be having dinner with them right now. He's scrawny enough to need more food, that's for sure. So they can't have had him skip on the basis of over-feeding. Maybe after Arthur said those things about Merlin's mum, Merlin cried so hard that he died.

Arthur supposes that these things could happen. He's watched enough telly to know that anything may happen. There's that show about those perpetually worried doctors that Grunhilda watches on the sly when she's supposed to be looking after them and people dropped dead easy enough during its airtime. Maybe Merlin has had one of those heart thingies for crying too much and is now as dead as his mum.

Arthur pushes his bowl of greens aside.

“You're supposed to eat all of those,” murmurs Freya shyly, looking at Grunhilda out of the corner of her eyes as if Grunhilda was about to rain fire on her.

Arthur breathes out. Freya is too much of a scaredy cat for Arthur's tastes.

Arthur could tell her that Grunhilda never chides anyone when her bosses are around and that they're safe because Mithian's with them tonight.

But then again Freya is a girl, so she's scared of the smallest things and being all logical wouldn't help her at all. Though, all right, Morgana is a girl too, and she isn't scared of anything at all. But she is older and dresses in black all the time, having scared away many 'potentials' foster parents away with her witchy clothes. This probably means that no specific rules apply to girlhood apparently.

In short, Arthur's not sure that girls are all one way or the other. That they're all Morganas or Freyas. He's confused by them. Not that he needs to get them now. And not that he needs to make Freya see things the way he does.

“I'm not hungry,” Arthur tells Freya.

“Arthur's saving space for dessert,” says Gilli, who always thinks about food and is bound to interpret Arthur's actions in a food oriented way.

“Ha!” says Gwaine, “kiddo knows how to pick his battles.”

Arthur bristles but doesn't tell Gwaine not to call him kiddo. It wouldn't work anyway. Gwaine would still call him that and Arthur would only confirm that he was a little boy if he fussed about it. “Mithian?” Arthur says, instead, “Miss?”

“Yes, Arthur?” Mithian says softly, pushing back her hair. “What's the matter? Not feeling well today?”

Arthur shakes his head. “No,” he says. “I'm okay. I was wondering if I could go upstairs earlier today though?”

“Of course you can,” Mithian says even if Grunhilda has already started objecting, mentioning timetables and schedules and saying, “This is leading the children to think they can do what they want when they want.”

Mithian looks steadily at Grunhilda. “Arthur is a very obedient child. I don't see why he shouldn't be able to go lie down if he wants to.“ She turns to Arthur once more. “Unless you're not okay and want us to call a doctor?”

“I'm fine, Mithian,” Arthur says, a little wash of hotness covering his cheeks. He doesn't want a doctor. He's plenty fine. And he doesn't want Mithian to fret about him either. Arthur likes her and he doesn't want to give her grief.

“I'm not giving him second helpings if he gets hungry in the middle of the night.” This comes from Grunhilda.

“Won't,” says Arthur, putting both hands on the table as if to push himself up. Mithian has as good as told him he can go upstairs if he wants.

“You can go Arthur,” says Mithian. She signs to him to come to her and when he does she hands him a bread basket. “In case you get hungry later.”

“Thank you, Miss,” Arthur says, sticking his shoulders out.

She ruffles his hair and he lets her, staying put, though he thinks she'd better ruffle Merlin's hair since he was the one crying earlier today. Arthur's too old for this anyway. But the petting is nice too so Arthur puts up with it.

From this close, he can tell that Mithian smells like roses. Like all women must. Maybe one day Mithian will have a kid just like him. And be like his mum. But if she did Arthur doesn't think she'd care about him as she does now.

Arthur prefers not to think about it too much but is startled from his thoughts anyway when Mithian speaks again.

“And don't forget to wash your hands and brush your teeth,” she says, holding up a finger. She's smiling and Arthur can tell she doesn't mean to tell him off at all. Arthur nods. He's never meant to slack off anyway. He knows what he has to do. He's good with rules. Just in case. “I will, Mithian,” he says.

He does as he's told, burrowing under the sheets once he's clean and in his PJ's. He's settling in a comfy position when Gwaine comes up. He marches up to the wardrobe, picks up the canvas bag he keeps at its foot, and starts filling it with clothes.

Arthur sits up in bed. “What are you doing?”

“Moving,” says Gwaine, tossing his hair out of his eyes and crossing over to put the bag on his bed. “It seems pretty self-evident, Sprout.” He crosses back to the wardrobe, getting clothes out of it and into the bag.

“You're moving out?” Arthur asks. He gulps. Ever since he's been here, which is ever since he can remember mostly, he's shared with Gwaine. “Are you going to be adopted?”

“Too old to seduce the knickers off a lady who wants to adopt a baby, Sprout,” Gwaine says, arranging his band-logo shirts into his bag. The fact that he's even bothering is a sign of how much he loves them. “I'm just moving down the hallway.”

“Oh,” says Arthur, chest a little lighter. “I see.”

“They feel I'm too sophisticated to share with the likes of you.” Gwaine tosses a few pairs of boxers into his bag. Only he does it by throwing them over his shoulder as if his underwear were a basketball.

“Not true,” says Arthur.

Gwaine thinks really well of himself but Arthur has learnt that most of what comes out of his mouth isn't factual. Now Gwaine isn't a bad sort but you can't believe him most of the time. Because he talks big. And makes up things. The incident about him spying on the older girls a case in point. He's never done it. Even though he likes to brag about it.

If he had, Drea wouldn't have told everybody that Gwaine was full of it.

“Cheer up,” Gwaine says, “you're not going to wither alone. I'm bunking with Gilli and you're getting--”

Before Gwaine can finish, Mr Taliesin appears, ushering in Merlin. So he's still alive. And okay. Maybe Arthur should stop watching the stupid programmes Grunhilda likes.

Merlin looks much better now. His cheeks are a normal pink and his eyes, though puffy, sparkle blue. “I thought that being of an an age with Merlin, Arthur, you'd be more likely to strike up a friendship,” says Mr Taliesin in his serious, I-run-this-place voice. Arthur knows it well. “Gwaine can share with the older boys and you can show Merlin the ropes.”

Arthur knows better than to say anything. Besides, he doesn't want to make Merlin cry again.

Merlin doesn't. Not even when Mr Taliesin places him on the bed and asks him if he can change into his PJs all by himself. Arthur has a feeling that Merlin's mum did that for him.

That's not so very nice of Mr Taliesin to have reminded him.

Merlin hasn't answered yet when Grunhilda waddles in with Merlin's suitcase. It's a grandfather suitcase of a brownish colour, peeling and plain. Grunhilda dumps it on top of the window seat and wipes at her hands, her lip turned downwards in a mean way.

Merlin's head turns as he follows her about and he hesitates in giving an answer even more now that Grunhilda is here. Arthur can tell Merlin doesn't like her. None of the boys and girls here do. But Taliesin clearly wants to know if Merlin can see to himself to make arrangements. He tilts Merlin's chin up and asks him the same question again. “Do you feel up to it?”

When Arthur was as little as Merlin, a year ago and more, he could dress himself and get changed all by himself.

Arthur experiences a moment of gleeful superiority at his skills offsetting Merlin's and smiles to himself a little.

It's clear Merlin isn't as good as Arthur was, but Arthur wants to bite that all back and unthink it, when Grunhilda says, “I'll change him. But then he's got to learn.”

She sounds as though she thinks Merlin's stupid. “I'll help him,” Arthur says.

Mr Taliesin taps his chin, shifting his gaze from Arthur, who's twiddling his socked toes under the bedsheets to appear good, and Grunhilda, whose narrow eyes make her look anything but.

All right, Arthur,” says Mr Taliesin. “Help Merlin with his pyjamas. I understand he finds buttons tricky.” He pats Merlin's head. “Don't you, Merlin?”

Arthur is already out of the bed. “I can help with all that,” he reiterates. It's not as if he has to crack numbers. Numbers are tough. And the alphabet. Clothes are easy.

Mr Taliesin nods and quirks his lips up at him. “That's very good of you to help, Arthur.” He turns to Grunhida to say, “Let's leave the boys alone so they can get to know each other.”

“What about me?” Gwaine asks, canvas bag slung over his shoulder.

“You, Gwaine,” Mr Taliesin says, “will try and get along with the others in your new sleeping quarters.”

Gwaine makes a military salute. “Aye, sir.”

“Gwaine, I'm serious.”

“Me too,” says Gwaine. “I'll teach them who's boss soon enough.”

Mr Taliesin exhales and cuffs Gwaine, but after that they all file out of the room.

When Grunhilda in particular is gone, Arthur toddles over to Merlin's bed and looks straight at him, at his newly trembling chin and wide eyes that suggest he may want the adults back. That he feels lonely and abandoned and other little kids' stuff.

“I didn't want to make you cry,” Arthur says in a rush in the hopes that Merlin won't, in fact, cry again. And that he'll say everything Arthur's said before is forgiven. That's important.

Merlin looks taken a back at that and he forgets to wail. “But you said that I'm going to have to stay here and I don't want to.”

Arthur doesn't know what to say. If Merlin's here that probably means that they couldn't place him for now. Maybe in future. But he'll have to wait. Just like Arthur. But Arthur can't tell him that because Merlin finds it very upsetting. He's tried already, hasn't he? In the end he just says, “Let me help you with those buttons.”

Merlin looks suspicious.

“You heard Mr Taliesin. It'll take you years to do them by yourself.”

Merlin nods. “I want to sit here for a while first.”

“Aren't you tired?” Arthur asks. It's almost nine. "At least a bit?"

“I slept in the car,” Merlin says, but he eyes his suitcase with longing. So maybe he doesn't want to stay dressed and on top of the covers. He's just afraid he won't cope.

“The younger kids all go to bed before nine,” Arthur says. “Ten on Saturdays. That's our curfew.”

Merlin tries the word curfew out. He mangles it, but then so did Arthur right in the beginning. Arthur still feels inordinately proud that he can spit it out in one breath now.

He's going to school in September. Year one. He'd better be good at this kind of thing. He doesn't want the other kids to look down on him because of where he's from. Arthur tells Merlin what the word means and Merlin nods again. Arthur believes he's got it.

“Okay,” Merlin says distractedly. “Let's go to sleep.” He claps his feet together, wriggles and hops off the bed. He opens his suitcase all by himself even if his hands are smaller than Arthur's and the chrome lock is big.

The suitcase is stuffed full of clothes for all seasons; most of them come in either blues or reds. But for the coat that is carefully folded at the bottom. That's black. Arthur guesses he now knows which colours are Merlin's favourite and which one isn't.

Merlin picks the pair of PJ's that somebody has carefully laid on top of the pile of clothes and hugs them to him.

After having shut the lid of the case, he climbs back onto the bed, making a big production of it, as if he's going up the side of a tall mountain. Arthur thinks Merlin's doing it like that because he finds it fun and not just because his legs are short and Gwaine's bed isn't meant for someone much younger than Gwaine.

On the bed, Merlin rolls onto his back and sits, kicking his leg once, something Arthur reads as nervousness.

“Can you manage stripping off?” Arthur asks.

Merlin bobs his head up and down and then peels his jumper off. Then he does the same with his tee. His shoes come off easily because they have a strap.

Arthur breathes more easily at that. He's just mastered the lacing up shoes skill himself and he doesn't want to be tested in front of Merlin. Merlin's the little one here.

Not knowing that Arthur's just experienced a moment of fear regarding shoe laces, Merlin shimmies out of his velvet trousers the way Arthur's fish kept wriggling after having landed out of his bowl. (Arthur saved him but just in the nick of time.)

Merlin slips into his PJ trousers easily enough. It's the top's buttons that seem to distress him, causing him to sniffle and make defeated noises.

His fingers are clumsy around the buttons and the buttons themselves don't seem to budge however much Merlin tries to pop them open. Arthur can see that Merlin seemingly wanting to succeed with all that he is is making Merlin worse than he would be if he just calmed down a little.

Arthur bats Merlin's hands away and buttons Merlin's top up for him, going all the way to the last button.

Merlin wrinkles his nose up. “My mum doesn't do that one up.”

Arthur sighs loudly as he's heard Mr Taliesin do and flicks open the last button. “Happy?” Arthur asks. Merlin is such a baby, really.

Merlin dimples up at him. Arthur forgives him for being so fussy about his PJs and helps him under the covers. He tucks him in, pulling the blanket up to his chin and fluffing it up for good measure. He's pretty sure Merlin won't get all wobbly lipped again if he does.

Merlin shifts under the blankets but soon nestles in, burying his head in Gwaine's stack of two pillows. All the kids at The Round Table are only allotted one, but Gwaine's Gwaine and he's nicked a second one for himself. One that he's forgotten here and that Merlin is now happily using.

“There,” Arthur says in a satisfied way, putting his hands on his hips and studying Merlin one last time before he sees himself off to sleep too. He's trotted off to his own bed and has almost burrowed under his red blanket when Merlin asks, “Did your mum never come back?”

Arthur digs his nails in the palm of his hand. “She would have come if she wasn't dead,” he says. They've told him she's dead so many times he's never had a problem grasping the truth of it as Merlin does.

“Mine isn't like her, is she?” Merlin asks.

Arthur turns off the lights because his eyes sting. “Then she'd be like Gwaine's mum.”

“What does that mean?” Merlin says, voice smaller.

Arthur really has to teach Merlin everything, doesn't he? “That she's in prison.”

Sheets rustle and Arthur's sure Merlin's flipped onto his side. “My mum's good. She can't be in prison.”

“Then she's like my mum,” Arthur says. This view of things seems pretty sound to Arthur and he doesn't think Merlin should be lied to. He'd only get sadder once he realised what the truth was. Arthur wouldn't want to be lied to.

“Oh,” Merlin says and then he doesn't talk for the longest time. Arthur thinks he's fallen asleep when he pipes up again. “I miss Kil."

“Uh?” Arthur says because that makes no sense. Kil is not a proper name. Most probably. What is Merlin even talking about? “What's that?”

“My dragon.”

Arthur closes his eyes and fetches a big, big sigh. “Come off it.”

“It's not a real dragon.” Merlin snuffles again. Arthur turns his head. Though he's turned the light off, he should be able to see the bright patches of Merlin's pale skin even in the darkness.

The fact that Arthur can't means that Merlin's ducked under the covers. And since Merlin had been making a suspicious noise Arthur can't help but think that Merlin's crying again.

Arthur's tummy goes funny. It clenches. Just like when he's careless, eats old leftovers in the fridge, and they have to call their GP.

“Oh,” Arthur says, “a plush toy.”

“Yes,” says Merlin. “Kil. It's my dragon.”

“Didn't you take it with you?” Arthur wants to establish the facts first. Not that this would make sense even if he had the facts. But he guesses he should help Merlin out since Merlin's his new room-mate. Facts or no.

“No,” says Merlin. “I didn't think about it. When the lady came and said I had to go with that other man I forgot about Kil.”

Arthur thinks he can pull some little more conversation off. The lights are out so nobody would think them still awake unless they put an ear to the door. “Where have you left it?” Arthur asks.

“In my room at home,” Merlin says. “I thought I’d go back and take him later but you say that my mum's not coming back and that probably means I'm not going.”

Arthur makes a decision that makes his tummy feel much better. “We'll go get it. Don’t worry,” he says. “But it's a secret.” He pauses so Merlin can see how vital the secrecy part is. “Secret. Got it, Merlin? Rescuing your toy is going to be our secret adventure.”

Merlin's laughter is the first happy sound Arthur's heard from him since first seeing him earlier today. Arthur has to say that he much prefers a giggling Merlin to a sad one.

“It's our adventure,” Merlin says, as if he likes the thought. Or maybe he's just happy he's getting his toy back. “That's good.”

“Yeah.”

They make plans and they both get more hopeful about them. Merlin tells him where his dragon is stashed and describes his house. Arthur thinks he can get at that dragon easily enough. He tells Merlin that and Merlin thanks him for helping him.

Now that everything's in order and Merlin has quietened, Arthur feels much sleepier.

He whispers the word “Adventure,” again just for the thrill of it but he realises that Merlin's more that half asleep already and can't have heard it.

Well, it's the promise of it that counts, Arthur thinks, before rolling onto his stomach and settling in for the night.

 

****

Arthur saws the treated lumber in half, getting two 6-foot pieces, paying attention so as not to hack his fingers off, and keeping his shoulder in line with the saw for ease of movement. He saws the wood in the space between the threads, heeding what he's doing. A mistake and he will have to throw away the material.

He pauses to scan the pieces he's got to make sure that the proportions are right and that the square he's now got looks like the drawing he has open on the table.

As he wipes at his forehead he looks and looks, squinting at the diagram. Having decided that his real life rendition matches the model, he proclaims himself satisfied.

One thing done and many more to go, he runs his hands across the wood's grain to make sure it's sound. Satisfied that it is, he makes marks on the sheet of paper he's got splayed on the table on the other side from the book. They represent his alterations to the diagram.

He's not marking the book because that would be very bad form. He can't possibly ruin Mr Taliesin's books, can he?

When he's quite sure he's got the base cut right, he plugs the drill into a switched extension cord. He pushes the mid-speed button and the tool whirs to life.

He's drilling holes into the main beam, protective goggles on, when he hears the pitter patter of feet on the ladder. He turns in time to see a mop of dark hair bobbing in his line of sight. It's Merlin. Who else?

“I knew you were in the tree house,” Merlin says as if he's very proud of his small deduction. But then again he always is genial, smiling and chirpy.

Arthur turns the drill off. With Merlin you never know. Because Merlin's clumsy. He can trip over his own two feet, God knows what he would do if he was given free rein with a drill. He'd drill a hole into his skull most probably. Arthur puts the tool down and takes his goggles off. “Very good, Merlin,” he said. “Your powers of deduction are great.”

Merlin climbs the last steps of the ladder and scrambles inside. His feet are bare and their soles are black. He must have crossed the garden just like that.

(Though, going by the filth stuck to his instep, it looks as though he's walked miles in that state.)

Merlin's jeans are are rolled up; and there's a vertical stripe of grime running up his left shin. He must have brushed against something dirty or played who knew where. Arthur's surprised they've let him. But Merlin's good at sneaking out, so perhaps they haven't.

Merlin looks like an urchin and that's seldom a vibe the staffers of the Round Table want their children to give off.

Now that he is here, Merlin throws a look at Arthur's work table, as if he knows Arthur's up to something and would like to find out what. His eyes do light up for a brief moment, but the glint of curiosity dies quite soon. Not typical Merlin at all.

Wearing a smile for Arthur, Merlin goes to huddle inside, snuggling against a pile of pillows. “They're all waiting.”

“I don't care,” says Arthur, covering his work table with a stained grey sheet.

“I told them,” Merlin says, gone all serious and wise. It's a bit disconcerting how he can shift from one mood to the other. How he can be all toothy grins one moment and so very earnest the next. Arthur supposes he's learnt that from Mithian but Mithian doesn't do crazy smiles. She smiles like a lady. So Arthur thinks maybe Merlin got that from his mum. Or it's just him driving Arthur crazy like usual. “But I made you a cupcake.”

“You can't bake, Merlin,” Arthur says, easing down next to Merlin. “And I doubt you can do the topping.”

“You burnt your hamburger,” says Merlin, sticking his tongue out at him.

Arthur mimics a shot to the heart and Merlin laughs.

“I did most of the work though.”

Arthur softens. “All right, I believe you.”

“You're still not coming down, are you?” Merlin asks.

“No,” Arthur acknowledges. Merlin is perceptive; he'd know if Arthur lied. “I don't think I will.”

“That's because of your mum, isn't it?” Merlin says. “Because you think it's your fault that she died.”

Arthur wants to flinch but he has no time to react. Merlin puts a hand on his knee before he can quite cut his thoughts into words or dispel the dryness in his mouth that Merlin's words conjured. “I think your mum would want you to be happy.”

“How do you know?”

Merlin shrugs. “I know my mum would want me to be happy.”

“You weren't though,” Arthur says, remembering the early days of Merlin's stay. “I was there.”

“But that was because I missed her.”

“Can't I miss her too?” Arthur would really like to know that. People assume he can't because he's never met her. But he does in an odd way. He's got things that were hers. And he's sure she's in them. Not for real. Not like a ghost or anything. But there's something of her in them he feels like he might get to touch one day. When he's old enough. So, yeah, he feels her absence in the spaces left by her phantom presence.

Merlin nods his head, worrying his lip. “So you want to be alone?”

Arthur thinks that if he says yes Merlin will take the hint and go. He doesn't often take the hint, but sometimes he can be totally intuitive too. “No, I--” He wets his lips. “I think I need help with this thing I'm doing.”

Merlin's eyes shine brightly. “Really? And what is it that you're doing?”

Arthur brings a finger to his lips.

Merlin understands and mimes zipping up.

Arthur picks himself up and goes to unveil his work in progress, then he waves Merlin forward.

Merlin doesn't need to be told twice. He starts up in a sprawl of limbs and makes it to the table in as short a time as possible. But then his forehead wrinkles. “What's this?”

“Nothing much,” says Arthur. Then he adds rather smugly, “For now, of course. What matters is what it's gonna be.”

“And what is it gonna be?”

“I thought there was one thing you really, really wanted,” says Arthur, teasing Merlin a little.

Merlin taps a finger against his mouth and goes all pensive. “I don't know, Arthur, please tell me.”

Curiosity flashes in Merlin's eyes again and Arthur almost wants to blurt it all out. But if he did, everything would be spoilt. Arthur loves savouring the anticipation in a surprise more than the surprise itself. Getting there is what counts. Not that Merlin's like him in that respect, because he's all too impatient for that.

Arthur privately thinks that's because Merlin's always eager. To do everything mostly. In the end though Arthur can't help but yield to Merlin's request even if he does it in his own way.

Even though Merlin can't read properly yet, and most certainly not the instructions part of the text, Arthur turns the DIY manual towards Merlin so that he can see the diagram part. Merlin frowns at it for the better part of a minute then, voice broken with enthusiasm, he says, “Are you building a swing?”

“Yes,” says Arthur proudly, “That's what you wanted, isn't it?”

“But only for my birthday,” says Merlin. He counts on his fingers. He can do that now and much better than he can do his alphabet. “That's six months away!”

“Yeah,” says Arthur, blowing on his fist. “I thought I'd get started early.”

Merlin's mouth is a perfect round. “Can I help?” he asks. “Please?”

“I don't know, Merlin,” Arthur tells him, looking down at him. “It's difficult. And you're still too young to use certain tools.” It's not entirely untrue. Although Arthur just wants to wind Merlin up.

As foreseen, Merlin ends up whining, “But, Arthur!”

“I don't know,” Arthur says. “Mr Taliesin would have my hide if you hacked your hand off with a saw.” Most kids Merlin's age would bowl their eyes out at the mention of cut off limbs. Not Merlin.

“I'm going to be careful,” says Merlin. “And you're not going to let anything bad happen.”

Arthur doesn't know what to say to that and before he can sort it out in his mind Merlin has climbed on top of the only stool they have up in the tree house and has turned to studying the diagram. “I can help,” he says.

Arthur does let him, after that. Couldn't bear Merlin's disappointment if he didn't. He drills the holes needed in each upright and in the side of the main beam himself, but he lets Merlin mark the spot where the holes need to be drilled.

Merlin gets permanent marker stains all over his knuckles but his grin and the flush on his cheeks tell Arthur that he's excited to be doing this.

He pesters Arthur with questions, of course. “Why are we doing this, Arthur?”

And Arthur answers, “To mark the spot where we need to drill the holes for the steel braces.”

“And what are the steel braces for?”

Arthur goes into teacher mode, voice full and steady. “To attach the main beam to the upright leg.”

Arthur allows Merlin to put the eye-bolts into the main beam because it's easy and he can't harm himself. Merlin tightens them meticulously, tongue sticking out.

Arthur grins and says, “Make sure the eye is on the bottom. Or the swing will hang all lopsided.”

“It is on the bottom!” Merlin says, as if couldn't possibly confuse top and bottom. “Look!”

Arthur concedes that Merlin is right.

It's Arthur who hammers the nail to attach the bracket, flips over the legs, and attaches the second bracket to the other side. He won't trust Merlin with hammers. Just think of the fallout.

By the time he's accomplished this, the sun has gone down and he can't properly see what he's doing. Its one of the downsides of being in the tree-house. It's wonderful in Summer when it's just this side of too hot but you lose daylight minutes in winter.

Realising this, Arthur starts putting his tools away.

“But it's not finished,” Merlin points out.

Arthur shoulder nudges him and says, “It is for today.”

“But it doesn't look like a swing yet!”

“I can't build a swing in a day!” Arthur says, tidying up his tool box.

“But--”

“There's more work ahead and that's it,” Arthur says, shutting the tool box.

“Can I help again?”

“No.” Arthur hides the half-fashioned swing under a tarp.

Merlin pushes off his toes as if he can get eye-level with Arthur that way. Ha! Not happening. “Please?”

“No.”

Merlin's lips tremble. And, okay, he looks pretty moving this way. Arthur doesn't know why he doesn't pull that kind of face during the highlight section films designed to bribe prospective parents into applying for an adoption order. He'd have found a home for sure. “All right,” Arthur says. “You can help me. But it's our secret.”

“Like Kil was?” Merlin asks.

“Well, they found us then.”

“But it was still a secret,” Merlin says.

“All right:” Arthur throws his hands up in the air. “Like Kil was. Our secret. But this time we keep it better.”

They shake on it.

Arthur doesn't end up celebrating his birthday. The few adults who work for the Round Table have given up on him and the kids have eaten his cake and taken themselves off. But some time after curfew he gets to eat the cupcake Merlin made in the dark of their room, Merlin by his side.

He doesn't tell Merlin that the cupcake tastes funny and that he now believes him as to his having made it almost wholly himself. Carrot shouldn't taste like mint. He eats it in two big bites all the same.

“Happy ninth birthday, Arthur,” Merlin wishes him and though Arthur doesn't reply, he believes in Merlin's well wishes as he wouldn't have in those of others.

 

****

“Merlin,” Arthur shouts, powering up the stairs to their room, “Merlin!”

He opens the door with a light kick. It's late enough in the afternoon for it to be dark. The curtains don't meet, so the light from the street lamps outside throws their room and its familiar shapes in relief. It highlights the wardrobe with Merlin's old colour books on top – Merlin's kept them because he can't bear to be parted from them even though he's too old for them now – their shared desk, their beds and their nightstands.

There's a clay figurine on Merlin's; a book on Arthur. It's for school, ear-marked because it's an used copy but un-read. At least by him.

But there's no Merlin himself.

“Merlin,” Arthur calls out again, peeking out the door to take a look at the corridor. “Merlin?”

The corridor stays empty; Merlin doesn't rush towards him. The entire floor is steeped in silence.

School's been out for hours and Arthur can't help but ask himself where Merlin is.

He has made so much noise himself Mithian finds it necessary to step upstairs. He's expecting to be told off for being loud, but Mithian does no such thing. There's no good-humoured reprimand on her lips, no admonition. She twists her engagement ring round and round her finger instead. “We can't find him,” she breathes out, pupils widening with the admission.

Arthur can't misunderstand her; doesn't fail to catch her meaning.

“What's happened?” he asks, fists balled up. “He was all right this morning.”

“His prospective adopters,” Mithian says but then she stalls and Arthur knows something's wrong.

“What about them?” He walks up to Mithian, maybe even struts up to her. He's fourteen now and can look her in the eye when he was never able to before. It changes things, makes him feel different, as if he has the power to ask. It's stupid, but it's there all the same. “He had an introduction visit with them today, hadn't he?”

“Yes.” Mithian nods quickly but she doesn't properly lift her head. “Our social worker drove him. We thought everything was fine. A few more meetings and he would have moved in with them.”

Arthur's nostrils flare. “Yeah, I know. But something's happened otherwise you wouldn't look like this.”

“I was sure they would have applied for an adoption order, Arthur,” Mithian says. She sags against the banister. “But they called. Said they think they might have a shot at being pregnant. They...”

“Don't want Merlin anymore.”

"Yes," Mithian says. "We had to tell him that the adoption fell through."

"The bastards."

“They were panel approved,” Mithian says in the tone of someone who doesn't properly understand her own words, how things have shaped up the way they have. Her eyes don't track him; she'd chasing her own thoughts. “There were no delays, no doubts. Their answers were perfect. You should have read their report! They sounded ready to brave anything to have a child.” She sounds like she's on the verge of tears that are only reined in because she sees him as a kid. “We couldn't have known, Arthur.”

Arthur throws a hand up in the air, a snap of a gesture, something outside his control. “Of course you could. There's so many of you. Social workers, judges, psychologists. What use are you, if he... If he thinks--”

Mithian's eyes are watering but her jaw is set. “Arthur,” she says, reaching out for him.

He scrambles backwards, fends her off. “I'm going looking for him.”

“Arthur, we're calling the police.”

“No you're not,” Arthur barks. “Or it'll go on his record. Adopters will think him difficult.”

“Arthur, he's gone missing,” says Mithian, “we're bound to.”

“Give me a couple of hours,” Arthur says. His voice is wavering but he gives it as much confidence as he can when he says, “I'll bring him back.”

“Arthur--”

Arthur interrupts her before she can come up with a list of very valid reasons why he should let the adults handle this. “I'm your best shot. I'm the one who knows him best. Not some PC who just hates the guts of kids like us.”

“I'm risking my job here,” she says.

She does look like she's panicking, but the reason he softens is because he doesn't think it's about her job. It's about Merlin. Her eyes go small and he can just tell what she's thinking. She's envisaging what might have happened to Merlin. What might be happening to him right now.

“I can find him,” he says again. He makes his voice a mixture of impassioned determination and reason. It's bound to sway her.

Mithian gets a hold of his hand and squeezes it. “I'm giving you till eight. Then I'll have to call the police.”

Arthur's jaw sets. He gives her a brief nod and starts off at a run, taking the stairs down three at a time, his trainers making the wood underneath crack.

He ducks out of the house without bothering to close the door behind him. Someone will do it for him anyway. Perhaps one of those incompetent social workers that always hover around will. Perhaps Grunhilda will. Or Mr Taliesin if he's there and not out shaking hands to get funds for his charity.

It's strange that it should be raining now, just as it did on the day he met Merlin. If he was as superstitious as Grunhilda he'd see it as a sign. Either as an indication that fortune is in his favour – that everything is going to turn out well as it did then – or a curse. A hint that someone up there has said a loud and clear 'no'. That his efforts are to be thwarted. That it won't be easy and that this story has no happy ending.

He won't let himself think that way though. It'd lead nowhere.

He must use his brains. They've got him this far, haven't they, they'll help him now that he needs it.

Most of all he needs to view the rain in a logical way, as an impediment. Just that. And it's not as if it isn't, for it's drenching him to the core even as he runs down the street.

It's falling coarse and heavy, lashing at him, tumbling down vertically through the still air, almost springing back at him, rushing him like a surprise attack so it's all he can breathe.

It's so thick it's in his nostrils, in his eyes, it feels a bit like he's drowning, but it doesn't matter because if he blinks he can still see, see the shower's radiance as the rain drums upon roofs and eaves and gables. The glistening, shiny structures are like beacons and tell him where to go even if the wan street lights do little to point the way.

Branches swing back and forth in the wind, a wind that whistles loudly. Choppy rivulets of water churn as they swirl down the gutter.

Arthur splashes through the puddles, runs and runs, the pavement slippery wet.

He sprints faster despite it and stumbles, going down with all the force of the momentum that was driving him forward. To break his fall he stretches his arms out. His hands stinging, skinned, his shoulder throbbing in its socket, he rolls over on the wet tarmac.

He breathes through his nostrils, inhaling more rain than oxygen. He's all right though. Nothing's broken. He pushes up like a sprinter and he's rounded another corner in no time.

And then he's running again, hands burning and bleeding, heart beating fast in his throat, a pulse that's loud and fast, a serrated tattoo.

Even though he's too caught up in the moment to think properly, to make plans, worrisome, dark thoughts flit in and out of his brain. And then fear starts eating at him.

He thinks of what may happen to Merlin while he's out there alone. Dejected and without him. Images come at him, vivid, bleak, and horrible. All he can do is squint against them, as if they're real and he can only un-see them if he does that.

It helps a little.

It helps more when he pushes his body further, eating miles at a run. And he forgets about picturing the worst in favour of acting.

A flash of lightning shows him the edge of the old park and the metal fence separating it from the road. Panting hard, he slips under it where it's cut in a curve created to fit over a pipe, a pipe that has long gone missing. Once he's on the other side, trees and grass untangling ahead, he steams down one of the paths he and Merlin know best.

It leads to the shed close to the pond, the ones the park keepers use to put tools and stuff in.

Arthur needs to believe that Merlin's there. That he would have gone there like he had the summer he left primary school and was sad because he wasn't going to see the same faces again.

Because, “I'm gonna miss them, Arthur. It's going to be so different.” What happened today is bigger, more far-reaching and not as easy to explain away with a robust clap on back as that, but he hopes Merlin's thought processes haven't changed too much. That fundamentally he's the same at twelve and a half as when he was at eleven.

When he comes within sight of it, Arthur skids to a halt, almost toppling forwards again. The park's been closed for hours now, because it's dark already and it's winter, so there's a lock on the door of the shed.

There's a chance Merlin's not there. That he's seen the obstacle and moved on. In which case Arthur would have to start his search from scratch.

Something tells him to stay though, an odd compulsion. He steps forward, slow now, and goes to check the building. There's no light inside but one of the windows has been broken. Arthur can't recollect it being smashed before.

When was that? Two weeks ago? Three? It was fine three weeks ago for sure. A hobo might have done it, looking for shelter. Or maybe Merlin has so he could sneak in.

He crawls closer, peeks inside. It's dark and he can't see a thing, but it's still worth a try. Nothing. It's too dark to make out anything but big looming shapes. And those probably belong to tools and shed furniture.

Cautiously, he boosts himself up and climbs through the broken window, lowering himself on the other side. Before he's free of the frame he catches his sleeve on a sharp shard of glass. It rips his jacket and opens a shallow gash on his arm. He hisses a breath that sounds too sharp in his ears. But then the sting fades and he lands fully on both his feet, safely inside. His feet crunch on more glass though, glass that's scattered across the floor in a circular radius.

“Merlin?” he calls out, voice cautious in case Merlin's not the one who's there. He might be alone or someone might be lurking in the shadows. Someone not as friendly as Merlin. “Merlin, it's me.”

All noise from outside is muted but for the wind whistling through the window. From the inside, there's not a peep.

“Merlin?” Arthur takes a step forward; there's a quaver to his voice that's a little like the squawk of the floorboards under his feet.

A sniffle breaks the silence.

“Merlin?”

A noise as if someone's shifting pricks at his ears. At least now he knows he isn't alone. A shiver runs down his spine and licks at his tail-bone. He inhales sharply, his blood dripping down his sleeve and trickling onto the floor as he waits for the person there with him to reveal themselves.

Then Merlin says, “Arthur,” and Arthur lurches forward in the direction of the noise.

The corner Merlin has chosen to huddle in is dark and he can't see his friend, but his feet stumble into another pair, and this tells him he's hit gold. He crouches. “Hey,” he says, “I've been looking for you.”

Merlin resettles against the wall, clothes rustling. “I wanted to be alone. For awhile. I'd have come back.”

Arthur searches out for Merlin's hand. It's not wet like his is. He's had time to dry up. “I know that. But Mithian was worried and you know what she's like. I had to promise to come and look for you before she'd calm down.”

“I didn't want her to worry,” Merlin says.

Arthur sits next to him, close enough for them to knock shoulders. Merlin's hand might have been dry but his clothes are soggy, like Arthur’s. He'll catch something, the idiot. And spare as he is, that's likely enough.

“Yeah, but she worked herself up all the same. Had to do a lot of talking before she got less upset. Wouldn't hear of anyone but me searching for you 'cause she knows I'm that good.”

He blows on his fist and rubs it against his jacket.

Merlin makes a small noise that might have been a 'sorry'. Arthur can't be certain of the word used but he'd bet everything he has it's an apology.

Well, Arthur wasn't trying to make Merlin feel bad. He changes tack. “You're soaking wet.”

“You too,” says Merlin. He turns, Arthur can't see much but he can tell the sharp angle of Merlin's profile even in the dark. There's not a bump to it. It's pure and childlike, but developing into something different, something angular and just that little bit mysterious. It chases odd thoughts into Arthur's mind, that stark relief does.

“It's raining,” Arthur says.

Merlin barks a laugh, half amused and potentially angry, not at Arthur though. Maybe it's just a sad laugh.

They sit in silence, their knees hunched up. Merlin's are near his chin. They don't speak; they listen to the distant thunder, to the play of water on the narrow window sill. A shaft of moonlight hits a shard of glass.

At length Merlin says, “I got back a bit earlier than planned. You weren't there.”

“Was playing footie with my team.” Arthur lifts a shoulder. “Thought you were with them. Thought you'd want to, you know, have some quality time with them or something.”

“I know.”

Arthur blows out air. “Merlin,” he says.

“I know you know.” Merlin moves, his shoulder brushing against Arthur's. “I thought--”

“They shouldn't have let you down,” Arthur finally lets out. It feels good. Like he's a kettle letting off bursts of steam. “I mean it was so close. And then they just... what? Went, 'No, thank you we're all set now'? The arseholes.”

“Maybe I let them down,” says Merlin. “I wasn't... I spoke out too much. Ran at the mouth. Maybe they didn't like that.”

“So you wanted to do what?” asks Arthur, genuinely confused. “Be on your best behaviour all of the time?”

“I was at first,” Merlin says. “Then I broke one of their bowls.”

Arthur scoffs. “A bowl.”

“And my worker told them about that English test,” says Merlin. “How I've only got a fifty percent and am not improving.”

“But you know all those complicated words,” Arthur says, waving his hand as if he can sweep aside those abstract concepts contained withing words like a broom with fallen leaves.

Usually, Merlin natters on and on and he's filled Arthur in on every new word he's learnt. Most of the time Merlin tries to apply those new terms to him and most of the time they're insults or harsh descriptors, but Arthur has never been angry at Merlin for using them any more than he has ever been over him showing those words off. “Like that one... Super..”

“Supercilious,” Merlin says loftily.

They crack up, lips twitching, sides shaking.

They laugh in a serious kind of way though. A different way from the usual. “Yeah, well,” Arthur says. It sums up all the wisdom he can offer at this moment. “The truth is they should have wanted you in whichever way you came.”

“That's not so easy,” Merlin says.

“No, but it is,” Arthur tells him, turning on his side so he's facing what must be the bulk of Merlin. “That's what love is.”

“They're going to love their own kid now. They only wanted someone else's if they couldn't have their own.”

“I bet they won't love it if it turns out it has too big a nose or its eyes don't look like mummy or daddy's.”

Merlin's knee knocks with his. “You know that's not true. They're gonna love it.”

“They're bad people and they won't and did you really want to go live with them?”

Merlin shrugs. “Sometimes, sometimes I'd like to have a mum and dad,” Merlin says.

“I don't want another set of parents,” says Arthur. “I had one and that's enough.”

“Yeah, I know, but--” Merlin's breath stirs the hair at his nape and wafts across the skin of his neck, warm and familiar.

“But what?” Arthur wants to get an answer out of Merlin. He has a need for that answer. He can't pinpoint why but he has a feeling he won't breathe easy until he's got one.

“Sometimes I don't want people to look at me like I'm different,” Merlin says quickly. “Like I'm a monster.

Arthur's hand finds Merlin's shoulder. “You're not. There's nothing wrong with you. Just bad luck, rotten luck. You've got to believe me, all right, Merlin?”

Merlin's breath flows out of him. “I know.” Arthur hears Merlin's voice grow full and proud and then his tones get rushed, vibrating. “I never really wanted to go anywhere,” he says. “I want to stay at the Round Table forever. With you.” Merlin's new bass goes contralto. “I want to stay forever with you. But Mithian said... said I had to have a family. That you'd go, that I'd have to too, that... one day...”

Arthur moves quickly and stamps a kiss on the side of Merlin's forehead. It's a kiss he'd regret as stupid and hasty, just a silly thing to do, if he hadn't felt Merlin relax against him. “I won't go anywhere, I promise. Not anywhere.”

Merlin's side is plastered to his now: he nods and flexes his torso, so they're turned towards each other. Their feet tangle and Merlin buries his head in Arthur's shoulder. “Then I'll stay,” Merlin says. “I'll always stay.”

And that's it, that's a pact. It's solemn and true. Like a vow. 

They don't exchange any words after. It seems to him that they have already said more than enough. More than is comfortable perhaps. And this time the silence's louder than before. Maybe it's because the rain outside has stopped and everything's come to a stand still. However it is, he now understands those people who say that silence can be louder than words.

To break the spell, Arthur ruffles Merlin's hair, acknowledging their promise, then he picks himself up. He offers a hand up to Merlin too but Merlin's on his feet before Arthur can call him clumsy.

Oddly, Merlin's the first to climb out of the window and the first to say, “Race you.”

When they make it back it's to find Mithian holding the phone against the cradle of her shoulder. When she sees them, dripping mud and dirt on the carpet, she says, “Thank you for your help, PC Grant, but I think I've got everything under control. Yes, thank you and goodbye.”

She puts the phone down; she's smiling through her tears.

 

*****

 

Even though he's in his twenties now and has a job with a building company, Gwaine still comes around.

Mostly, he does it when it's summer and he's got less work to do because the posh gits who hire his firm are off on holiday. But drop by he does.

Last year he and Gwaine re-did the garden shed, making it more solid and less of a danger for the little kids that always poke their nose in.

This year, Gwaine pops by when the days turn hot, a little like a sparrow announcing the good season. He comes with boxes of paint, brushes and rollers, saying he wants to give the garage and the back of the house a fresh coat of paint.

He gives the rollers to the young kids, so they can have fun. They run away with them to stage a mock fight, even though they're dripping paint, leaving Arthur and Gwaine to the real toil.

Mithian lets Gwaine butter up the kids but Arthur wings an eyebrow.

Gwaine says, “I'll paint it over if they make a mess.”

Arthur shakes his head but he and Gwaine amble companionably towards the garage all the same.

After they've covered the floor and sockets, they start to work on the garage's inside, prepping the walls, priming them and applying compound. To keep the paint smell at bay they have to keep the door gaping open.

Since it's business hours at the Round Table, the courtyard gates are flung wide too. This means that the neighbouring girls start to trickle closer.

Arthur knows they've come because Gwaine, the show off, has taken his shirt off, displaying a set of abs he's developed ever since leaving the Children's Home and working hard on a construction site. The perks of minimum wage labour Gwaine called them whenever Arthur ribbed him on the subject.

Since Gwaine isn't at all bothered by the neighbouring girls' attention, they sneak closer, whispering in each other's ears as they lean together.

Arthur doesn't think they're discussing the weather and it gives him an odd sense of disorientation, of unreality, like he's an actor on stage and he's forgotten his lines. Like the audience's about to burst out laughing.

It makes Arthur frown and focus harder on sanding the walls, on filling gaps and cracks and stuffing holes with primer.

“You're positively pouting,” Gwaine says as he fastens down the wall's edges with masking tape. “I don't get why.”

“They never come when it's just us,” says Arthur. Gwaine seems to get who he's referring to without any more signifiers. “We always throw parties for the kids' birthdays and we live down the road from them. But they don't want to be seen with us. We're lepers. They only come when you're here.”

“Oh,” said Gwaine. “I see. That righteous indignation of your will give you an ulcer.”

Arthur busies himself unscrewing switch plates and outlet covers. “Shouldn't I want people to be consistent?”

“Attraction is never consistent,” says Gwaine, putting down his screw driver. “Personally, I'm flattered.”

“They're only ogling you because they think you're not one of us homeless kids.” Arthur says, a stifled breath rushing out together with the statement.

“Actually--” Gwaine winks even as he changes the sander's paper, removing the layer that got clogged with grit and dust. “I was. Besides, they're ogling you too, Sprout.”

Arthur looks over his shoulder at the group of girls. They catch his eye and jab each other in the ribs. Arthur's head whips back around and he fastens his eyes on the array of tools Gwaine's brought along. “I--”

Gwaine ruffles his hair. “You're what? Fifteen now? I thought you'd found a way to get into some girl's knickers by now.”

Arthur shrugs Gwaine off. “Piss off,” he says.

“Why, no, come on, I just assumed.” Gwaine laughs. “Though evidently not. I'll say, though, that blushing becomes you, Arthur.”

Arthur gives Gwaine the finger, stands up quickly and starts scratching bump and drips off the previous coating of paint. He enjoys running the scraper down the his side of the wall in the loudest way possible. “I don't want to father an unlucky bugger like me. A kid with minors for parents? A minor like me? It'd end up right where I am.”

Gwaine shoulder bumps him. “There's such a thing as condoms, Sprout. I'm pretty sure they teach that kind of thing here and at school.”

Arthur seals his lips together, his eyes firmly on the imperfections on the wall. “I-- just.”

Gwaine's attention goes back to the task in hand too, but that doesn't stop him from saying, “Hey, I was just sayin'. I'm sure you toss off like any regular good lad and that that will keep you going for a while.”

Arthur turns away from Gwaine. He picks the sanding sponge and rinses it in a bucket before putting it to wall to rough up the surface. He tries hard not to go over Gwaine's words, not to pay them any mind.

Of course, he does get off. He's a teenager. Mostly, he does it when Merlin has already fallen asleep or when he's alone under the shower, his cock stiff and aching. Ninety mornings out of a hundred he wakes up like that so it's just natural that he should sneak off to the bathroom at those times.

But sneak off he must.

It doesn’t feel like as though it would be right if he did it when Merlin's aware of what he's up to. It's a rule of his. At first he'd made the rule because Merlin was just such a child and mentioning that kind of thing to him was all sorts of wrong. It's stayed one because it wouldn't be nice to alert Merlin to his getting off rituals. Not even if Merlin does it himself by now.

Or so Arthur has to suppose. He probably does tug on his cock when no one's looking, fretting it into plumpness. Perhaps he does it when Arthur is at football practice or before Arthur wakes in the morning. He'd--

“You're crimson, Sprout,” Gwaine says, as he finishes sanding his side of the wall.

Arthur's surprised to find Gwaine isn't as close as he thought he was, that he's drifted off.

“I'm not,” Arthur says. “I'm not even looking at those girls.”

Gwaine laughs. “That doesn't mean you aren't thinking about them. What you could do with them.”

Arthur clamps his lips together, vowing not to give Gwaine even more ammunition. His dedication pays off because he's very nearly finished his side too.

“I could introduce you to some girls,” says Gwaine, reprising the conversation. “Of course they'd be a little older than you but you've got to start somewhere.”

“Fuck off, Gwaine,” Arthur says, climbing on the ladder so he can reach high enough to run a line of paint along the edge of the wall right where the ceiling starts. He'd add some other choice insult to the invective, but stops short when Merlin bursts in in, trotting up to Gwaine and throwing his arms around him in a big hug he manages to pull off before he's even come to a standstill. “You didn't say you'd come today. I thought you'd come next week.”

“Ha, Merlin, can't stay away for too long. And it's been ages,” Gwaine says, clapping his hand on Merlin's back vigorously, then pushing him a away so he can study him. “You've grown. You're almost as tall as me now. I object to that.”

Merlin laughs, spreading his arms out to show just how much he's grown. “Mithian says I'll shoot up even more. Haven't bulked up though. And my bones hurt a lot of the time.”

It's true, Arthur notices. Not that he hasn't before. But now that he tries to see it from Gwaine's outsider perspective, he can definitely see the changes that a few months have worked on Merlin.

He's taller indeed; Arthur has less than an inch on him now when he was used to looking down every time he wanted to talk to Merlin.

Despite his new found height, Merlin's looks terribly weedy though.

Especially when he's wearing something loose like today. His big shabby shirts make it seem as though he's drowning in fabric and half starved. Now Arthur knows for sure that that is not the case. They may not have everything here at the Round Table; they may not own fancy gadgets or clothes that look like those on magazines, but they're well fed. Or Arthur would go steal. He doesn't want to but he'd do it if Merlin was really going hungry. But there's no need for that. They're okay.

Yet Merlin keeps looking stretched thin, inhabiting a body he hasn't grown into yet. He goes about like a baby giraffe, all legs and elevation, sporting the coordination of just such an animal, gangly limbs always getting in his way.

His latest growth spurt notwithstanding, Merlin still has a child's face though, and that comes with sparkly eyes and toothy innocent grins that become serious only when Merlin's thinking about the future or the past they've all almost forgotten. The before.

“Oh well,” says Gwaine, “you'll forget about that soon enough. When you start turning girls' heads, hey Merlin?”

Merlin ducks his head. “I don't think I ever will,” Merlin says. His voice is changing like the rest of him is but sometimes and despite Merlin's best intentions to sound wise and adult, it cracks. Like now. “I'm not like you, Gwaine.”

The note of admiration that oozes from Merlin's tone is distinct; Arthur doesn't get why Merlin looks up to Gwaine when Merlin's much more level-headed than Gwaine's ever been. But he does. And that's wrong on so many levels. Gwaine's a good bloke if you look through the bluster, but he's a shit role model.

Gwaine says, “But you're a handsome fella yourself.”

Arthur botches his ladder descent, stumbles but recovers all in one breath. When he's steady on his feet, he says, “Shut up, Gwaine. Merlin's not here to feed your ego.” He turns to Merlin. “He's just waiting for you to tell him that he's perfect for GQ or something.”

“Touchy,” Gwaine says. Then he adds, “By the way, Merlin, don't listen to Arthur here.” Gwaine says this, crossing his arms and mock scowling. “He hasn't got a girl, has he? You want to beat him to one of your own. Get there first.”

Arthur's cheeks burn; mostly though it's because Merlin is craning his neck at him, looking at him out of deep blue eyes, eyes that are large with questions and bright with feelings, glittering eyes that make Arthur nervous.

Hand plucking at his shirt, Merlin studies him but also looks as though he's weighing Gwaine's words. There's a tiny little line on his forehead and he's practically munching on his lower lip as if he's thinking so hard it's a strain on him.

Despite that Arthur can't tell what he's going on inside his head because Merlin has a knack for looking impenetrable at times. He may generally be an open book – you just know when he's down or devastated – but sometimes he isn't. On those occasions he just drifts to a world of his own where secrets can be kept and Arthur can't say what he's thinking.

It bugs Arthur more than a lot.

Arthur’s' fears, however, supply him with plenty of suppositions.

He sees Merlin questioning Arthur's lead, thinking him less than because he doesn't score the way Gwaine does. He knows he's the go to person for Merlin, like a big brother, and wants for it to stay that way. He doesn't want Merlin to look to Gwaine for answers. He doubts Gwaine would do a good job providing them anyway. He'd just come up with a load of bullshit. Arthur's just that much more sensible.

There's Mithian and Mr Taliesin Merlin can look up to, but they wouldn't be as good confidants as Arthur either. Because Arthur's been through the same things that Merlin has and they haven't. Their being older doesn't weigh in at all.

Merlin meanwhile is answering Gwaine, dismissing him with a hand wave. “Nah, I don't think anyone would be as mad as to prefer me over Arthur. He's gonna have me beat anyway.”

The subject changes before Gwaine can tease Arthur some more, or say something like, “Good team spirit,” to Merlin. Which he totally would if he could.

Gwaine's an arsewipe.

Now they're talking less, they get the garage done. And part of the exterior.

At one they have their lunch break and though some of the girls from before have gone home for their own meals, some others have stayed. So Mithian invites them over. She probably just wants the Round Table kids to make a few friends from outside.

Arthur isn't very keen.

For one he's painfully aware of the girls' presence and of every move he makes. He's aware in a way he's never been before. He feels small in his skin, hyper-sensitive. He's always been at home in his body, sure of controlling it just the way he likes. All that fails him now and he lowers his eyes.

He falls silent but the silence only reminds him of Gwaine's taunts. Sod, Gwaine, he wouldn't have lost his cool but for his insinuations.

By the time lunch is over – not painlessly; he's spilt orange juice all over the cloth – Arthur has come to a decision.

He has to adapt.

When school starts again he takes to actively seeking girls out. At first he runs into a wall but things change when he starts to say please and smile more. The one that says a definite yes and sees it through is one of the girls from that August lunch; her real name's Brangaine but she prefers to be called Bran. “It's a cute nickname. I like boys' names for girls.”

Arthur can tell Bran still has a thing for Gwaine – she has a photo of him in her diary – but she's sixteen and has no chance in hell of getting off with Gwaine.

They go out three times, on Friday nights. And while it seems odd to be doing what boys with parents do, the dates aren't disastrous. They're even okay. Almost fun. If his hands stopped sweating and he second guessing everything he says, they would be.

As it turns out she goes to the same school he does. So they see each other a lot, even when he isn't planning it, and mack after school or during free period. Her friends tease her and call him her boyfriend. It's not as if he minds it, but he wouldn't say things have really gone that far.

As for him he doesn't push it. He's content to be doing what he's doing. Which isn't all that extraordinary. He just sees more of Bran than he does the other Round Table kids. That's all. It's a bit inevitable: he's now expected to walk Bran home and to wait for her in the school's courtyard when their timetables don't match. To spend time with her and watch her go shopping. Over all, he's had to redirect some of the effort that would usually go into school – not that he's a genius at theoretical subjects – or the Round Table towards her.

The experience itself though is different, is making him different. He doesn't think it's a bad different. But he becomes aware of his body and what it can do in a way that's escaped him before. He registers every physical reaction he has. When he gets hard. When he knows he's making her want him. How the other girls look at him when they think he's with Bran.

That sets tongues wagging.

Thanks to school gossip Merlin finds out. After all they both go to the same Comprehensive now. One afternoon he meets Merlin outside the labs buildings. Merlin asks him why he's not walking home with him and Arthur's explanation is rendered useless when Bran sneaks up on him from behind, cups both her hands over his eyes and kisses him somewhere south of his ear.

“Oh,” says Merlin, kicking at loose gravel. “I get it. It's true.”

Merlin walks home by himself and Arthur spends the afternoon at Bran's – so he won't have to answer questions. Questions he doesn't know how to answer.

He needn't have feared being put to the question, however. When Arthur stomps into their room, dumping school bag and jacket on his desk chair, silence greets him.

Merlin's lying belly down on his bed and has his nose in a text-book.

After a long silence Arthur decides is uncomfortable, Arthur blurts out, “You're not asking me about Bran.”

Merlin taps his pencil against his nose. “Why should I?” he says, squinting at the Maths text-book like he really, really wants to solve that equation.

“I don't know,” Arthur says, sprawling on his bed, his back to the headboard. He starts playing with an old yo yo he's retrieved from the night stand drawer. He believes it was Merlin's, long ago. He doesn't even remember when he appropriated it. “Because I thought you would care. You're always putting your nose...”

“Where it doesn't belong?” Merlin asks before bending lower to scribble on his notebook. His pencil's scratches on the paper are loud like nails on a blackboard.

“I wasn't going to say that.”

“You can say it,” Merlin says. “Grunhilda says I'm a nosy, cheeky bugger all the time.”

“You're not,” Arthur says, but then he can't bring himself to suss more words out of Merlin. He wasn't expecting this particular reaction on Merlin's part and is now thrown.

“Doesn't matter if I am,” Merlin says, sitting up. He uses his pencil to bookmark his textbook then slams it shut.

Arthur stops tinkering with the yo yo and looks at Merlin out of the corner of his eyes. “It does. She shouldn't say things like that.”

Merlin shrugs his shoulders, tucks his book under his armpit and takes himself downstairs. The words, “Need Freya's help with Maths,” reach Arthur from the stairway.

It's not as if Arthur believes Merlin's protestation but he can't force this conversation and he's not sure where he's going with it either.

Sighing, he rakes his knees up and looks at the ceiling as if it's got answers.

It doesn't.

 

**** 

Over the next few months he sees more of Bran. They don't get to know each other in the way you'd think two people who're part of some sort of couple would. It's not the way it's on TV, that's for sure. He hasn't really fathomed Bran more than he has French Lit. Nor does he know her secrets, her dreams, or stuff like that.

She doesn't talk about her family unless it's to complain about her mum and how much she stifles her. She doesn't say much about her friends either. But that may be because Arthur doesn't like hanging out with them. They look at him funny.

But one night when they're alone, things progress between them in the way you think they would.

That night she gets bold without his even spurring her. That she does it comes as a total surprise and one he wasn't pestering her for before.

She touches his cock, pulling at it with too little force and digging her long nails in too hard. It still gets him panting and red faced, though a tear wells in his left eye. And though he can't find the words to tell her how to do it, he still manages to guide her hand and direct her moves. He grows in her hand and he can't even look at her because she's giggling.

But his heart beat speeds up a little and goose flesh blooms on his arms.

He spills over her knuckles a minute later, feeling both high and empty; she doesn't seem too happy about the stickiness. While his ears are still ringing she wipes her hand on his shirt.

It makes him laugh an out-of-breath laugh but then he tenses all over because he starts thinking about how to explain the stains away. Bloody black shirt. He doesn’t want Grunhilda to know. Or worse, for Merlin to see.

He hastens home after that with a hurried thank you on his lips.

Bran is angry with him over the next few weeks and stays angry until he promises to repay her.

Once he has sworn he will, she gets determined to get him alone. And manages quite splendidly when her parents, her father is the local GP, head out on a conference trip.

When they're alone in her pink and purple bedroom she lets him finger her.

She feels soft and warm and wet, and it's strange.

He knows why and how and he has a rough idea of what he's doing, but it's still strange. So much so he doesn't even get hard, too focused as he is on doing this right and not hurting her. He strokes her up and down, between her nub and her opening, and then slips his index finger between her damp folds.

She squirms and twists her hips, making him go deeper even though he isn't sure that that won't hurt her. He should have checked on a book or on the net. Despite his fumblings, she jerks and gets even wetter, riding the heel of his hand.

Eyes closed, she seems to find the angle she wants and begins to move faster, without him doing anything much anymore, barring putting another finger in and keeping it there. But she's slamming her crotch on his wrist and that seems to be working for her. That's round about the time he feels her tighten around him, a soft exhale and the pink colour of her lips telling him that she's done.

He's done it. He's made a girl come.

She kisses him before he's worked out how this makes him feel. He should feel something but for now he's just out of the loop.

Almost lethargically, he continues touching her and as she doesn't bat his hands away he thinks it's all right.

She's relaxed and listing towards him anyway, so he slips his fingers lower and, curious, circles her arsehole with a fingertip that's coated with her own wetness.

She does bat his hands away then, huffing and moving off him.

They don't do anything more after that even though they have the house to themselves and they potentially could. 

They just sit with their back to her bed, the position they've been in all night but for loo runs. They watch telly for a while, Bran's head on his shoulder, his resting against a fluffed up pillow.

It should be familiar. How many evenings has he spent at the Round Table doing exactly this? Heaps.

It isn't though. Maybe it's because it's just the two of them and there's no array of kids of disparate ages to wonder at the goings on on the screen. Just the other day the youngest one asked if Spiderman was dead when it looked like he might be. Arthur had to bite on his lower lip not to tell him that that isn't how super-hero stories work.

He'd wonder about why that should feel homey and this doesn't but he's too busy knocking his knees together.

“Do you want popcorn?” she asks.

He says, “No, thank you.” And he can tell he sounds like a priggish sod.

She doesn't remonstrate though she wrinkles her nose up. That's when they hear a noise.

“Oh, God,” Bran says. “It's a burglar. Must be. Go and do something.”

They creep downstairs, clutching the phone to call 999 but the light goes on in the lunge and it turns out that Bran's parents are back. Two days before they're scheduled to and less than happy to see Arthur there.

“I'm sorry, I'll go,” Arthur says but not before Bran's mum has said, “I should've known. I should have known we couldn't trust a homeless orphanage boy with our daughter.”

“Muuuum!” Bran screeches, but Arthur doesn't stay to hear the rest. He thunders downstairs, devil at his heels, looking for the door while he's blanked out on the lay out of the place.

Because of that he still catches some of the exchange. “I think they call them children's homes now, Kat,” says Bran's father.

“I don't care. God knows who his parents are or where he's been.”

Bran shouts, “I hate you. I hate you both.”

He finds the door and opens it with quaking hands.

Once he's out there, he just runs back to the Round Table, wanting to cry but holding back the tears, holding himself in even while it feels as though he might splinter apart. He only knows that he hates them, hates them, hates them all.

For every itch in his breath and for every sob he lets escape. For all the stomach churning and bile tasting he's now doing.

What he hates more though is that he can't tell Merlin. That he has to remember the burn of shame, that he has to swallow the indignation and the anger and gulp it down as he does the salty taste on his tongue, because Merlin must never become aware.

Not of what they've said to him and not of what Arthur's done.

With Arthur hovering pale and straining in place on the threshold of their room, Merlin asks, “Are you all right?”

Arthur just stands rooted there, unseeing, and reins in the sobs. He should have said something. Should have vindicated his mother. Himself. But then again it doesn't matter. This is all he is and all he'll ever be: a dirty orphan people only pretend to countenance.

His nails drive gouges in the palms of his hands. So as not to leave bloody marks that will get noticed, he stops. Though he doesn't want to because the concentrated pain gets him numb elsewhere. Chest rising too rapidly for a show of calm, Arthur dives headlong on his bed, lying on top of the covers. He buries his head in the pillow.

“Arthur, please.” Merlin's voice has gone smaller, childlike. This is one of those cracks that rip at the fabric of his pretend adulthood.

Arthur grunts.

Bed springs creak. Merlin climbs on the bed with Arthur and wraps an arm around his middle, his perennially cold nose buried in the space between Arthur's shoulder and neck. “Are you crying?”

“No,” Arthur says. “Go to sleep, Merlin, it's past two.”

“Arthur, please, please tell me.”

“Got to sleep.” It's a rough bark. It's horribly angry. It's a tone he's never used on Merlin before. A tone he would have punched someone for using on Merlin. That he's gone and used it himself all but adds to the list of failings he accuses himself of.

Merlin says, “All right. I will. Promise.” But he doesn't retreat or baulk. Instead, he goes lax and falls asleep where he is, on Arthur's bed.

Arthur heartbeat eases even though he welcomes the morning with open eyes.

Arthur turns sixteen the next day. He breaks up with Bran on that day. On that same day Mithian tells him, “I waited to tell you because I thought it would be a splendid birthday present. But the Du Lacs have passed the panel phase. They'd like to meet you. To adopt you.”

Arthur meets Merlin's eyes over Mithian's shoulder. They're both taller than her now.

Merlin's face falls though he doesn't move, doesn’t even so much as blink. Even so he goes white as a sheet, his face morphing without his moving a muscle.

Arthur can't take that. He runs off and goes to hole up in the tree house back in the garden. It's been years since he last set foot in there.

 

*****

The du Lacs are perfect. They're young, for one. They're in their early thirties and there's a shine to their eyes that makes them look as if they're much younger. She's soft and tiny. Her eyes are dark and luminous, with a depth to them that manages to be both warm and merry. He's tall and dark. He has brooding looks but smiles serenely and is affable in a quiet, steady way.

Gwen puts the salad bowl down while her husband pulls a chair back. “It's just potato salad,” she says. “I'd have made something fancier but Lance reminded me of a certain truth about teens. That they don't much like fancy food.”

“I didn't like elaborate dishes when I was Arthur's age,” Lancelot says, indicating Arthur should sit. Lancelot continues when Arthur has managed to scrape his chair back. “I was a fish and chips kind of bloke. Not that I could have afforded anything different back then.”

Arthur takes a look at the room he's in. It doesn't exactly scream penury at him. Everything is very nice, not just clean and neat, but also expensive. The sofas have soft rounded edges and look sturdily solid in a way that doesn't weigh them down. Covered as they are in snow-white upholstery, they look pristine and by no means cheap. The polished wood floors are shiny and covered in plush carpets with intricate woven patterns that reflect so many colours Arthur can't name them all.

The ceiling has mouldings. There's lots of knick-knacks on the mantelpiece and the frames arranged along it come in silver and ivory.

There's vases full of flowers and decorated cushions everywhere; in short enough attention has been paid to the décor to make it clear that no expense has exactly been spared.

While the place is not ostentatious, it also has a quaintly posh air about it too.

As for the table they're sitting around, it's daintily laden. The tablecloth is of white lace with small roses stitched along the hem. There's three glasses and three plates for everything and an array of cutlery Arthur has never seen anywhere else before. At the Round Table they get their cutlery directly out of the kitchen drawer they need it. He doesn't know even where to put his elbows. “Potato salad is fine,” Arthur says, studying the forks. There's three of those, too.

“I'm glad,” says Gwen, sitting down. She passes the bowl to Arthur first. “Take as much as you want.”

“We have enough,” Arthur says, eyeing the fat potato rounds. “We don't go hungry at the Round Table.”

Gwen cups her mouth, her eyes growing large. “I didn't meant to imply that. I mean--”

Lancelot puts his hand on top of his wife's free one, where it's lying on the table. “I'm sure Arthur knows you didn't.”

Arthur spoons some of the salad onto his plate. He makes sure to make it an average portion so it won't look as though he's hungry, but also so as not to make it seem as though he's taking too little to make a point.

He passes the bowl to Lancelot, who serves himself, going for the same kind of portion as Arthur.

Gwen says, “I really didn't mean it that way, Arthur. I hope you know that. It's just that you're growing up and your social worker told us you do sports, like Lance used to, and he was perennially hungry back then.” She reserves a smile for her husband. It's very sweet though there's a note of mischief to it, of silent communication, of a secret only the two of them share.

“I understand,” says Arthur, lifting the salt shaker and seasoning his salad. “Totally.”

“I hear you play football,” says Lance. The bowl makes it back to Gwen. She piles potato salad onto her plate while she keeps looking attentively at Arthur, her mouth a little parted, a slight frown of attention marring her brow.

“Yeah,” Arthur says, “but I'm just on the school's footie team, nothing big.”

“What position?”

“Uhm.” Arthur plays with his food, poking at the mound of potatoes. “Striker, centre forward.”

“That's a star role, isn't it?” says Gwen, wrinkling her nose at Lancelot in question and then beaming at Arthur.

“I was a midfield,” said Lancelot to Arthur. “Much less glamorous.”

“I've played midfield too,” says Arthur. Mostly when Coach wanted to teach him a lesson in team spirit. He doesn't say it though. He doesn't think it'd be a welcome affirmation. The du Lacs wouldn't understand anyway. He sincerely doubts they ever got told off for something like that. Or at all. Instead he eats.

“That's good.”

“We might take him to a match,” Gwen says, “if his social worker is all right with it.”

“We might,” says Lance cautiously. “What do you think, Arthur?”

“I like football.”

There's strawberry short-cake for dinner. A flourishing of whipped cream is curling upwards on top of it. As Arthur licks at his tiny dessert fork, conversation resumes.

The du Lacs ask him how he's doing at school. He tells it how it is, makes it a little grimmer even, just to test how they'll take it. Gwen offers to tutor him in English if he's weak at it. They ask him about sitting for his GCSEs. “Big year, isn't it? Nervous?”

“Not really.” Arthur shrugs. “Meaning to drop out of school anyway. After.”

“But you don't have to,” says Gwen. “You sound like such a brilliant boy, Arthur. It'd be a pity.”

“I'd be thinking about that long and hard before taking that kind of decision,” is all Lancelot commits to.

“I'm not that good,” Arthur says. “And I want to work. Be self-sufficient.” He keeps the rest of his half-formed plans to himself. They don't need to know.

Lance and Gwen look like they want to say something about that, both leaning forward slightly in their seats. They take each other's hand instead and change the subject. They ask him whether he has friends at school, not even mentioning the Round Table, or if he's found himself a girlfriend. He tells them he had one but that they've broken up.

Lancelot smiles sheepishly. “That happens. You'll find the one in time, no need to stress about it.”

“We did find each other at fourteen,” Gwen gushes.

“Yeah and that was the happiest moment of my life.”

“Yeah,” Gwen tells her husband. She remembers Arthur then, cocking her had at him. “But you're definitely way too young to seriously worry about that kind of thing.”

They watch telly together but not for long because Arthur's social worker, Mrs Locke, comes to pick him up. “Maybe I'll drive you next time,” says Gwen, adjusting the collar of Arthur's jacket. Arthur ducks into the car, his cheeks a bit warm.

When he gets home, Merlin's on the bed, building a card castle, brow screwed up in concentration. He's got two stories up already.

“Merlin,” Arthur says, putting a hand on top of his shoulder.

Merlin bats him off. “Can't you see what I'm doing?,” he asks, not even glancing Arthur's way. His attention goes back to his card layering. He picks another card from the deck and licks at its edge before leaning it against another one.

“You're not asking me how it went.”

“No need,” says Merlin, blowing on the tips of his fingers. Arthur doesn't know if he’s doing it for luck or if he thinks it will help with his grip. “Mithian was gushing about how perfect the du-Whatevers are.”

“Merlin.”

Merlin tries to balance another card on top of the second layer. But he's also just shrugged Arthur off with a tense, curt movement that sends his frail construction crumbling. At the spectacle, Merlin's face goes red and he blows air out of his mouth in constipated annoyance. His lip trembles and he sits back. “You've ruined it,” he shouts; he does it so high his voice quivers on the highest bit. And then he runs out on Arthur.

The next time the du Lacs have him for dinner it's a Sunday. Lancelot is wearing glasses. He taps the barrel and says, “Was working at the computer. Tomorrow's a Monday.”

“I see,” says Arthur, hanging his coat on a peg. “Uh.”

Lancelot puts his hand on his shoulder, walking him past the open study door. Arthur catches a glimpse of a solid mahogany desk, a wide computer screen, and stacks of filing cabinets. Between them a flourishing potted plant sporting huges leaves and a wall safe sit, shiny number pad looking pretty high-tech even from afar.

Lancelot winces mock dramatically. “Yeah, lots of work. You'll get the full experience when you're a working man yourself.” He whisks Arthur in the living room, where Gwen's waiting for them. “I'll leave you to Gwen. I hope to be joining you soon, but if not, you know what's keeping me, all right, Arthur?”

Arthur nods and sits down next to Gwen. “I bought some DVDs to watch,” she says.

She shows him a selection of films, each one belonging to a different genre. There's a rom-com, a Three Musketeers edition, an old one from the nineties, one of those disaster flicks called Cloverfield, and the latest Indiana Jones movie, the one with the skulls in the title, that Merlin likes so much. “So what would you like to go for?”

“It's the same really,” Arthur says. “Pick the one you want.”

“Arthur.” Gwen lets out a sigh. Arthur watches her fiddle with the cases. He doesn't relent.

They end up watching the Three Musketeers one. Half way in Lance saunters back, taking off his glasses. “I knew she would get you to watch that one,” Lancelot tells Arthur as he sits on the arm of the sofa and puts his hand on Gwen's shoulder. “She's always had a crush on that Sutherland guy. Ever since she blackmailed me into seeing this very film when we first started going out together.”

Gwen leans back into Lancelot but pummels him on the arm. “I didn't blackmail you.”

“No, you know that your every request is my command.”

“Charmer.”

Arthur knows they'd kiss if he wasn't there. As it its, they don't. They just make eyes at each other. Lancelot leans closer, unconsciously so, making Gwen tilt her body forward and towards him by simple virtue of his presence.

Arthur cranks up the telly's volume and fakes listening to the lines the actors are spouting. Gwen and Lance refocus on him after a minute or so but even so they start talking about private, or relatively private, matters. “Are you done for this week?” she asks.

“Yes,” Lancelot says. “After today I'm going to be entirely at your disposal. I'm helping Percival with his broken ankle though.”

“Poor Perce,” Gwen says, “tell him I'll bake him something.”

“I will.” Lancelot kisses the top of her head. “And could you drop the money with Mr Knowles? I won't be able to this Thursday.”

“Okay,” Gwen says. “And give Perce my best.”

It's ten PM when Arthur gets home. Merlin's not in their room and when Arthur asks where he is one of the other boys tells him he's sleeping downstairs because one of the springs on his mattress has given. For the first time since he was six Arthur falls asleep to a noise other than the sound of Merlin breathing.

Over the next few weeks, he visits Lance and Gwen a lot more, Mithian watching him go every time with a smile on her face. She says, “A few more months and they'll be able to apply for an adoption order.” She rubs his shoulders. “Maybe we should start thinking of you moving in with them.”

Merlin thunders back upstairs when he hears that.

That Friday night Arthur breaks a bowl. Before his handling of it, it was big and round, with blue butterflies spreading their wings around the middle like a frieze. A Wedgwood China stamp had sat on the bottom before it got split in two. After the crash, Gwen rushes back into the kitchen too see pieces of her bowl scattered around. “I'm sorry,” Arthur says. “I suppose it was valuable.”

As she sweeps the shards into the dustpan, Gwen says, “Never mind that. You're not hurt, are you? I've got a first aid kit upstairs. Or Lance could drive you to the A&E.”

“You've got dinner.”

“Arthur, dinner is not all that important.”

Arthur says, “I'm fine. Not even a scratch.” He shows her his hands.

She throws the shards in the rubbish bin and gets another bowl – a pale pink one – out of the cupboard. “We'll use this one.”

“I can't repay the other one,” Arthur says.

Gwen puts both hands down on the counter. “It'll never be a question of that between us, all right? We're going to be family.”

Arthur sets the table.

The next week they take him to see an Arsenal match in Highbury. Twenty minutes in Morrison takes control of the ball from Van Persie and blasts it towards the edge of the penalty area. The goalie hesitates and Benyaoun rolls the ball into a very empty net.

A few minutes later West Brom takes the lead and a pass towards Dorrans results in a goal for them. “Sorry, Arthur,” says Lancelot.

As soon as he's said that, an offside penalty is awarded to Arsenal. Gwen asks, “Can you go over the rules with me again? What's an offside penalty?”

Lancelot opens his mouth to answer but Arthur cuts him off. “If you don't know then why the fuck have you come?”

Neither of them bristles, which almost provokes Arthur into saying more, but after Arthur's outburst they both fix their eyes on the action on the pitch and don't say anything for a while.

When Mrs Locke comes to pick him up Arthur bounds over towards her old Fiesta, but Lancelot stops him. “Arthur,” he calls out.

“I'm late for dinner,” Arthur says tersely.

“Is something wrong with you?” Lancelot asks. “Trouble at school? With that ex girlfriend of yours?”

“No,” says Arthur. Lancelot looks like he doesn't believe him, squinting at him as if he's trying to work out why Arthur's being like this.

“Everything's fine,” he says.

“Arthur, I know we don't know each other so well--”

Arthur breathes in and breathes out, his ribcage shaking with it. He closes his eyes and says, “Let me go home, you're just sad, prying middle class fuckers, aren't you?”

He ducks into Mrs Locke's car; it stars chugging loudly down the street and Arthur doesn't look back at all.

Merlin is silent and moody. He's apparently finished his homework early but he's not downstairs with the others. Instead he's cooped himself up with Mithian. Peeking inside their room, Arthur doesn't catch what they're saying, only the tail end of Mithian's, “Promise me that. Promise me that you'll try.”

He sees Merlin's reluctant nod even as it's tempered by a jutting jaw that's all obstinacy.

Mithian squeezes Merlin's knee before levering herself off the bed. She sees Arthur on the threshold and smiles. “Hello, Arthur,” before slipping past him and downstairs.

Merlin sees him too. He's silent but his eyes are watery. The conversation he had with Mithian must have been earth-shattering. “I hope you had fun,” he says, sniffling and dabbing at his nose with the back of his hand.

“Merlin.” Arthur drops his rucksack. There's lots and lots he wants to say but it's all mixed up in his head right now. There's a lot he wants to do too, seeing as his heart is now doing flips in his chest, but he doesn't think any of what he's thinking is safe. “Here,” he says, opening his rucksack. “I got you an Arsenal shirt. It's a number ten. Like Van Persie.”

He steps forward and presents the shirt to Merlin. “He's the best.” A little stupidly he adds, “Like you.”

Merlin looks at the shirt out of confused, hounded eyes. “I can't even play football,” he says.

Arthur's knees bump into the edge of Merlin's bed. He turns Merlin round, grabs the hem of the tee Merlin's wearing, a blue and purple one, and lifts it off him despite Merlin's protests. He basically wrests Merlin into the new shirt. “I got it with my own money. From helping Gwaine.”

Merlin lets out a big sob as if his breath had got caught fast in his throat just before he spent it. As if everything that he's dammed up so far has broken loose. He then wraps his arms around Arthur's middle and buries his nose halfway between Arthur's chest and belly.

Arthur combs Merlin's hair back. And says, “I'll teach you.”

Merlin doesn't say anything and Arthur just kisses the top of his head.

Arthur doesn't make his weekly meeting with the du Lacs the following week. He pleads a terrible sore throat. He's even allowed to stay home and not go to school. He spends the morning flipping channels in his PJs. He even tidies up his and Merlin's room, both sides. It doesn't matter that Merlin should be doing his.

At around midday he cooks himself lunch and helps one of the smallest kids cut a steak in bit pieces so she can eat it. Mr Taliesin surprises him by saying, “You have a nice touch with the younger ones.”

“Thank you, sir.”

His first sleepover is scheduled for the second week in March. Arthur balls up a number of nondescript clothes and stashes it in his overnight bag with no attention to what goes inside. Then he leaves it on his bed while he trots downstairs to go out for a run. “In this weather?” Mithian asks. “Wind's up and Lancelot's picking you up in an hour.”

“I'll make it back on time.”

Arthur takes a detour round the common, stops to hang with two blokes from school, one of them is a reserve on his footie team, the other is in year 9 and Arthur hasn't seen him from before the summer. When he's done with them he stops at the local grocery shop and buys himself a Gatorade. He's sipping at it when he reaches the Round Table.

Lancelot is sitting in the common room downstairs, having a tea with Mr Taliesin. They're talking about the neighbourhood, it would seem. Its pros and cons. How their environment contributes to forming the children for good or ill.

Merlin is perched on top of the stairs, eavesdropping. He's hidden by a partition wall so Taliesin and Lancelot don't know he's there. Arthur raises his hand to say hi to him but Merlin scampers.

Arthur clops into the common room.

“You're late,” says Mr Taliesin. “You've made Mr du Lac wait, Arthur.”

Arthur scrubs a hand through his hair. “Uh, yeah. Was doing my thing.”

“Your thing?” Mr Taliesin arches his eyebrow and his voice goes deep.

“Yeah.”

“It's okay,” Lancelot says. “It's my free day.”

Arthur goes upstairs to grab his things, finding Merlin on his bed next to the overnight bag he made before. He finds it zipped up already. He fiddles with the zip and says, “Merlin.”

“What? I didn't want you to lose your stuff all over the place.”

“I'll be back tomorrow lunch time, you know that?”

Merlin says, “I heard Mr du Lac talking. He says that he wants you to stay longer with them otherwise you'll keep feeling... He said you'd keep feeling displaced. Between two worlds.”

“I don't feel like that,” says Arthur, messing Merlin's hair up. “I'll be here tomorrow lunch, Merlin.”

Merlin nods but Arthur can tell he doesn't believe him. He's looking at Arthur the way he does at Mr Taliesin when Mr Taliesin is going on about responsibility, speechifying in a way that sounds pre-cooked. He crouches by the bed and repeats his words. “I'll be back.”

He tears himself away and storms downstairs, telling Lancelot, “We can go now.”

They have to stop at a take-away for food because Arthur's made them late. When Gwen gets back from work they eat Chinese out of cartons. When Gwen asks why, “Didn't you want to try your Stroganoff?” Lancelot doesn't rat him out.

Arthur doesn't say a word throughout and the Du Lacs stop trying to make conversation – either with him or with each other. They hold hands under the table and look patiently forbearing.

With a film running in the background, Arthur jerks himself upright from his sprawl, inclusive of shoes – on the sofa. “I'm going to sleep,” he says. “Not watching this mindless crap with you.”

He dashes upstairs and shuts himself up in the room they've set aside for him. They've given him a desk, put books on the shelves, and made the bed in a fancy way. He's got a puffy blue duvet and striped sheets, he sees. On the walls they've hung posters. Mostly Arsenal. Some from other footie teams. And there's a big one of a rugby pile-up. Arthur's never watched a rugby match in his life and can't tell whether that's a still from a televised game or a posed shot.

There's other odds and ends they've left here. There's a monkey shaped paperweight on the desk, a wiker basket for dirty laundry, and a stereo set with a few CDs placed on top.

As he casts his eyes around the room he notices one familiar item; his overnight bag has been placed at the foot of the bed. As he picks it up and opens it to get at his night things, an object drops out. At first it registers as a grey and maroon ball of something or other. His grip his tenous, so it rolls on the floor and it wedges itself between the bed and the night-stand.

Arthur goes on all fours to retrieve it. When he finally has the object in his hands it's to realise that it's a dragon plushie. It's not Kilgharrah. They never did get it back after all. It's been years and this is new. And shop bought. Since Merlin's never asked for a replacement and is now too old for a toy anyway, he's got to believe that Merlin has gone and bought one for him. Especially.

“Merlin,” he says, and smiles and sniffles, eyes getting blurry. “You big softie.”

The door opens and Gwen enters; she has a stack of pillows balanced on her arms and held firm by her chin. “I thought you might need more,” she says, wobbling forward because of the cumbersome armful.

“Thank you,” he says, taking the stack from her and depositing it on the bed.

She smiles vibrantly at him but then notices the dragon. “Is that for good luck?”

He doesn't think it's as uncomplicated as that. “No,” he says and he makes it gruff and short, hoping she won't probe anymore.

She inhales, pats the pillows and nods to herself. “Right. Good night then.” The door closes softly behind her as if she's got fairy touch or is too light to cause a ripple in the space continuum.

Hours pass; he hears all noises die down. The TV is silenced. Then the floorboards stoop creaking under Lancelot and Guinevere's weights. All lights are out. Even those in the neighbourhood go off. A lone cat mewls for a while in a back street but it too seems to give up come four.

It's then that Arthur slips downstairs, padding along the corridor towards the hall door.

Before reaching it, he slinks into Lancelot's study and closes the door behind him. He directs his step towards the big desk and starts opening drawers as quietly as he can.

There's a pile of papers in the first and in the second; office supplies are in the third together with a photo of a slightly younger and just as happy-looking Gwen sitting on top of a box of pins. He gets lucky opening the topmost drawers on the left.

He finds a wad of banknotes secured with a paper clip. His hands falter when he picks it up. So he drops it and sinks into the chair behind him. The leather creaks noisily when he does, and it sounds to him as though the walls are about to crumble on top of him. A clock ticking in the background making him aware of the time passing, he stares at the dropped cash.

Then on a rattled breath, he stirs. He rakes up the money with unsteady hands and counts it. It's a neat thousand.

He pockets the amount and then closes the drawer behind him, making it look like he hasn't touched anything. He steals back downstairs with less caution than he might have used hadn't he been set on edge.

Once he's gained his borrowed bedroom, he hides the money in one of the side pockets of his overnight bag.

Gritting his teeth, he climbs back into bed, waiting for dawn.

Since he hasn't slept at all, he's the first downstairs. Given that he's there, he starts putting dishes on table. When he realises the du Lacs aren't up yet, he starts rummaging inside the kitchen cupboards.

He finds a satchel of oats on a top shelf and after he's made sure it's not past its use-by date, he makes oatmeal because he knows how to and it'll kill time.

By the time the du Lacs come down, he's spooned three portions into three separate bowls.

“Oh my God, thank you, Arthur!” Gwen exclaims, eyes dancing, full of light. “Lance, look, he's made us breakfast.”

Lancelot smiles. “That's brilliant, Arthur, thank you.”

“I wanted to,” Arthur says, and he swallows the other words he does want to say. So badly and can't.

They spend the rest of the morning together one way or the other. Half way through it, he's recruited into helping Lancelot fix the garage shelving, Lancelot telling him that he's good at this kind of work. Gwen fixes them lunch by way of sandwiches. It's egg and cress. Arthur eats desultorily.

Some time after one, Gwen drives him back.

The first thing he does as he steps home is pound on the door to Mr Taliesin's office. Mr Taliesin doesn't answer at first, sending Arthur into panic mode, but then he does, showing Arthur inside.

Before Mr Taliesin has quite sunk back into his chair, Arthur has stalked up to his desk, taken the wad of banknotes from out his bag, dropped it onto Mr Taliesin's desk and said, “The du Lacs can't adopt me. I've stolen from them.”

 

****

Mr Taliesin arches his eyebrow, looks at the money as if it might sprout fangs and bite him, and pushes his chair back from his desk as if he wants to put distance between himself and it.

“We'll go over this again,” he says commandingly. “What do you mean you stole from them? How and why?”

Arthur straightens, squaring his shoulders. He can't bring himself to lock eyes with Mr Taliesin. He can't look at his desk either. That particular piece of furniture is out because the wad of banknotes he's nicked is lying there. It screams at him. A filthy little mass of crumpled up paper. And Mr Taliesin is out as well but that's because Arthur doesn't want to read disappointment in his eyes. For lack of a better object to concentrate upon, he trains his gaze on the floor.

“I took it from Mr du Lac's study when he was sleeping,” he says slowly, jaw stiffening the more shame burns bright in him. “I did it because there was stuff I wanted.”

“Arthur,” Mr Taliesin says, “that's not good enough of an answer.”

Arthur realises that. He supposes he could list off the reasons why he would need the money. He's a teen and there's so much that teens are said to need and want. He can make it believable. He doesn't do it, however. He keeps silent. It's not that he wants to avoid the memory of what he's done. He's not deluding himself about it. But the words won't come anyway.

“Arthur, I want you to look me in the eye and explain why you did what you did.”

Arthur has to; he has to lift his gaze. He's been called out and there's nothing less he can do. To do any less would be so much more humiliating than meeting the challenge and he can't live with the thought of Mr Taliesin deeming him a coward. “I suppose you should call the police.”

“I will do no such thing,” says Mr Taliesin. “You're a minor, Arthur.”

“It doesn't matter though, does it?” Arthur says. “I did something wrong. And you have to tell the authorities.”

Mr Taliesin levers himself off the chair he's been occupying, coasts his desk and walks over to Arthur. He puts a hand on his shoulder and, more gently than Arthur would have expected given the circumstances, says, “Let's ring the du Lacs and try to sort this out, together. All right, Arthur?”

Arthur nods his head. He's had what he wanted. He's okay with the consequences and punishment he'll get. With the du Lacs knowing and hating him. With having a criminal record. There's just one stipulation he wants to make. “Please, don't tell Merlin?”

He couldn't bear disappointing him.

One of Mr Taliesin's eyebrows snaps upwards but no rebuke comes with the facial tick. “I won't. But we need to talk about this.”

Arthur slowly nods, the imprint of Mr Taliesin's hand burning him.

The du Lacs arrive an hour later. They've changed into different clothes from the ones they were wearing at home. Lancelot has ditched his sports tee in favour of a button down and casual trousers. Gwen is wearing a flowery dress that flares at her waist. A butterfly pin is lodged in her hair, as if the real thing got trapped there and was changed into a silver ornament. They look as if they're about to go out on a date. Or would if they weren't wearing a very concerned expression.

“What's happened?” Lancelot asks. “You said you there was something you needed to tell us.”

Mr Taliesin bids them sit on the sofa Arthur's the sole occupier of. They seat themselves on either side of him, as if they're his parents and they're waiting for the headmaster to tell them that Arthur's been skyving off.

“You said it was about Arthur?” Gwen inquires. “You can understand our concern. We've worried. A lot, to be honest. Is it about our adoption application?”

“No, no.” Mr Taliesin leans against the edge of his desk, folding his arms across his chest, his jacket stretching at his sides. “It's not that. You've been approved. But there's something of which, at Arthur's request, you need to be made aware of.”

Before Mr Taliesin can couch it diplomatically, Arthur shoots up and, fists balled, makes a clean breast of it. Arthur fixes his eyes on Lancelot first. “I took your money. The money you had in your drawer. I did it. And you see, you can't trust me. You can't adopt me.”

Gwen surprises him by grabbing his fist and wrapping warm fingers around it. “Arthur, are you in trouble? Has anyone bullied you at school or outside it? Do you owe anyone money?” It's clear she thinks he's got involved in some shady business.

“No, I'm not in trouble,” Arthur says. “I'm just not the kind of person you want to adopt. I'm a little punk. I am trouble. ” He guesses that was what Brangaine's parents had meant when they found him at theirs. That he'd end up bad with just a list of petty crimes and a mug shot to his name. They probably still think that you can't put faith in someone like Arthur because of who he is. He doesn't deem it impossible to convince the du Lacs of the same.

“Arthur,” says Lancelot, “yeah, the money thing is worrying but not for the reasons you think. We're not concerned about the nature of your gesture. But about how telling it is.”

“I think,” Gwen adds, “that we can't overlook this. You need help and we can't act as if this hasn't happened.”

“I never meant you to,” Arthur says, his voice flat. He can bring up no defence and he doesn't actually think there is one that would ever make sense to them. Now he's in this and he'll have to see it through. He knew before he did it and he's not fooling himself now. There's no out.

Someone doesn't agree though. Before Gwen can tell him what she thinks of his behaviour, the door budges open and Merlin tumbles into the room, ending up on his knees, rolling there as if his momentum has caused him to pitch forward.

“Please, don't arrest him,” Merlin says with an effusion of feeling that embarrasses Arthur because of how desperate he sounds. Merlin's eyes are bright with a hint of tears, his lashes sticking wetly together. His voice is broken and Arthur can hear the effort Merlin's putting into holding onto lower, even tones. “Don't send him to prison. I can get you your money back. I can work. I can earn the money back. And if a part time job's not enough I can... drop out of school, say I'm sixteen, I'm tall and I'd pass. In a few months I'll turn sixteen anyway--”

Mr Taliesin opens his mouth to say something as to that, but Arthur has already gone, picked Merlin up by the sleeves of his tee, and blurted out, “You idiot, you're not dropping out of school and you're not repaying anything. It was my fault.”

“Doesn't matter, does it?” Merlin says, “I'll always help you.”

Mr Taliesin says in a voice that can't not be taken seriously, “Merlin, what is the meaning of this? And, no, before you continue, you're not doing anything foolish or rash.”

“But--” Merlin says only to clamp his lips together when he realises how thunderous Mr Taliesin's face looks.

Mr Taliesin is going on about not condoning eavesdropping when both the du Lacs intervene, “Who's this?” goes Lancelot. And Gwen tells Merlin, “We don't want to be compensated. Arthur has already given the money back. He confessed immediately from what we gather. We'd just like to know why he did it.”

Merlin ducks his head. “You have to forgive him,” he says. “You can't not adopt him because of this.”

“Shut up, Merlin,” Arthur says and it's angry now. Merlin means well, Arthur knows that, but sometimes, no matter how intuitive he can be, he can also fail at getting things. At doing what Arthur wants him to or at picking up his cues.

“But,” Merlin tries again and Arthur can see that he's a step away from stomping his foot in exasperation. “They need to see. They need to know you deserve them. That you're the best.” He pauses, and then referring to a previous conversation of theirs adds, “You're the one who is.”

Merlin turns towards Gwen and Lancelot – who clearly haven't exactly figured out who Merlin is because they're wrinkling their brows at him – and says, “He looks out for me. And for the younger kids. He's the one who's always there – for me. He's really brilliant and the best thing you can do for yourselves is forgiving him.”

Arthur's heart stutters in his chest; it expands till it feels as though it's pushing against his ribs. Swallowing hurts all of a sudden. His vision clouds but then the prickly sensation simmering under his skin takes over and he bursts into action.

He grabs Merlin by his shirt and both backs him up against a filing cabinet and pulls him close. He doesn't know which one of the two he wants to do more. So he indulges in both. “Shut up, shut up, shut up,” he yells. “Can't you see what I'm doing? I thought this was what you wanted and it's what I want. Why can't you just shut up and stop spouting this meaningless gibberish?”

None of the adults intervene, but Merlin curls his palm around his fist and says, “Arthur, I don't know what you mean. I thought--”

“I think I can clear this up, Merlin,” Mr Taliesin says. His body is angled in a way that allows him to address everybody equally. “I think I've got to the bottom of this issue.”

“That's good because I'm confused,” says Gwen.

Arthur doesn't let Merlin go even though he should; even though he's aware of having all eyes on him. He doesn't specifically want to either. Not if Taliesin has guessed right and everything he is is going to be exposed. He wants to feel Merlin close in case he is. Merlin's always been there for every momentous episode of Arthur's life. This is one of them and Arthur can't help but seek his presence, his body, as he's always done.

“I think Arthur took the money on purpose.”

Arthur doesn't point out that you can't steal without having a purpose. Especially not a grand that was securely stashed in a drawer. He merely waits for Mr Taliesin's further words.

“I think Arthur stole that money so you wouldn't adopt him.” He cocks his at the du Lacs.

Arthur dips his head against his chest, letting go of Merlin.

“Is this true?” Gwen asks. “Arthur, is it true that you don't want us to adopt you? But why? Have we done anything? Is there--”

Lancelot palms his wife's knee. “I suspect that it wasn't us,” he says. “That there's more to this than us.”

Gwen's face contorts in pain; her eyes are shining and she looks at Arthur as if he's hurt her and she can't fathom why.

Arthur owes her an explanation. Can't refrain from giving one. “It's true,” he says, shoulders slumping. “My place is here. The time for going has gone. I'm sixteen, going for seventeen, really. I grew up here and I don't want to leave.” He spins on his heels so he's facing Merlin again. “I don't want to. We're a team, aren't we?”

“But you can't want that,” says Merlin. “This is your way out. Out of here.”

Arthur's heart plunges to his stomach. “So you want me to go? I promised you once that I wouldn't.”

“When?” Merlin asks and Arthur could tell him date and hour, remind him of that day he found Merlin in the park shed, but instead listens to Merlin's words. “Never mind that. I just meant to say that it's okay if you want to. Everybody wants a chance at being normal, at having what the other kids have.”

“Whatever got that idea into your brain?”

The question fetches a frown on Merlin's brow. “Why, Mithian. She said I had to let you go. If I loved you I had to.”

Arthur couldn't be more aware of having all eyes on him, but he needs to ask. “Do you want me to? Leave?”

Merlin opens his mouth, closes it, and breathes through his nostrils. He throws his hands up in the air and says, “No! No, all right! I don't want you to go and have a family and forget me. I was trying to think about you, you prat. I was trying not to be selfish. I don't want you to go. I don't. I really don't.” A sob breaks from Merlin and he's quick to turn and face his body away.

Arthur's going over to him when Mr Taliesin's voice makes him stop. “Arthur, you should have said this before. Your opinion would have been heard. No judge will ever force you to leave, if staying's what you really want. And I presume I can speak for the du Lacs when I say that neither would they.”

“We didn't know you'd formed such a bond with your friend,” says Gwen. “I understand now. And I'd never force your hand.”

Lancelot stands. “You have to forgive us. For not seeing sooner,” he says, glancing at Merlin's trembling back. “Despite losing one of our parents young, Gwen and I come from loving families. Families we're devoted to. Gwen has a brother and her father. I've a mum and cousins I'm so close to we might as well be brothers. We thought everybody would be happier having what we have. We just failed to understand that the bonds you create in a place like this are just as strong as family ties.”

Merlin leans his forehead against the cupboard, palming his eyes. He draws a ragged breath as if those words are hurting him. Arthur doesn't get what in particular is doing so, but something is.

Arthur is torn between going to Merlin and saying something to the du Lacs. His compromise is odd. He's boring a hole into Merlin's skull but speaking to the du Lacs. “I'm sorry for disappointing you. I'm so sorry. And for taking your money. I am.” He pauses. “But this is not helping anyone is it? You want to give your love to a child and I can't be that child for you. I'm not even a child anymore. There are other kids here who needs parents more than I do. The small ones who have no one. Think of them. Galahad is three. He needs you. Think about it, please.”

“We will,” Lancelot promises, “but we want you to know that no matter what you're set on doing, we want to be your friends. We want to be there for you in whichever capacity you might need us. If it's friends, then that's good too.”

It's a day of firsts. The first day Arthur's committed a crime. The first day he feels he's being treated like a man.

Gwen agrees with her husband. “We would honestly love it if you could see us that way. We understand you're not a child, Arthur. Perhaps we were so taken with the idea of becoming parents and having you be a part of our life that we messed up. We didn't show you how we wanted that to be on your terms.”

“I want to be friends with you,” Arthur says. “It'd be... an honour,” he says, falling on that for lack of a better descriptor for his feelings. “But I need to stay here for that to happen. Don't take me away.”

The du Lacs take each other's hand and nod. Mr Taliesin stands apart, chin propped on his hand, his arm wrapped around his middle.

They discuss this a bit further; but they're all tense, wrung out. Arthur feels like he's fought a battle. He feels like a dish rag that has seen way better days. The events of the past few months have been pushing and pulling at his emotions and now he's drained. It must show. For after Mr Taliesin has given the money back to Gwen and Lancelot, he calls the meeting to a close.

Mr Taliesin having opted for giving them the privacy of a goodbye without witnesses, Gwen hugs him on the doorstep, saying, “Remember that we want to be there for you. You have our phone number.”

Arthur doesn't know where to put his hands. She's so real, there in his arms. A comfort. He says, “Thank you.”

Gwen meets his gaze; she has to look up to do so. She can look fragile too. Maybe Arthur's not the only one adrift. “Don't thank us. We did nothing special.” She pauses, then ploughs on despite her earlier shyness. “Maybe I have no right to say this, but I want the best for you, Arthur. Choosing what that best is is your call.”

This time Arthur hugs her back, arms going taut around her. She sniffles; he doesn't do the same by a thread. Lancelot slaps him on the back and his eyes convey a message all on their own. Or so Arthur thinks.

It's then that he starts breathing freely, thinking that perhaps he can do this. That he's in control of his life and what happens to him. It's the first time ever that he's ever felt this way. It's good. Scary and good in equal measure.

Before the du Lacs drive off, they look back at him and Arthur raises his hand in a salute. He doesn't smile because he doesn't think he can show what he had bottled up inside. But he waves until their car disappears down the road.

When he can't see them anymore he races upstairs, knowing Merlin's waiting for him.

He's sitting on Arthur's bed, his hands on his knees, his feet wide apart on the floor.

When Arthur closes the door behind him, he wets his lips and speaks up. “You aren't doing this out of misplaced solidarity, are you?” he asks.

He doesn't sound lost or in need or reassurance, just assessing and terribly grown-up.

“No, it's not that,” Arthur says. “I'm not leaving you behind like you wouldn't me.”

Merlin nods his head. “I never would. Never. I promise.”

Arthur sits next to him, a knee on the bed, the other leg stretched out towards the floor. “I do think you mean it.”

“Course I do,” Merlin mutters. It looks as if he might say more but instead he just holds Arthur gaze for the longest time. The look in his eyes gets meaningful and serious while retaining a soft note to it. It's as if he's approving of Arthur and considering something at the same time. One moment he's doing that and then the next he's tipping his head to the side in the way of curious birds.

Arthur feels his cheek redden under Merlin's close study. Feels his insides go hollow and his stomach give, as if he's coming apart and everything's gushing out of him.

Then Merlin moves. The back of his knuckles stroke Arthur's cheek gently. Arthur's heartbeat ramps up; shivers skitter down his spine, breaking goose flesh on his skin. His mouth falls open.

Right as it does, Merlin darts forward and joins his open mouth with his for a fleeting moment.

The tips of their tongues brush together for a single heartbeat and then it's over.

Arthur world has changed all the same.

 

****

 

They don't do anything about the kiss. Merlin just spends his time looking at Arthur out of soft, wide eyes, as if Arthur's a brand new revelation and not the same person he's roomed with ever since forever.

Those looks make Arthur feel like a giant, like he's important. They fill him with a warmth that seeps into his tissues, his bones, his marrow.

It's invigorating and he'd strut about like a cock in the pen if that was all there was to it.

But there's a downside to what's happened and they will have to talk about it at some point. They can't live like this. Merlin acting like nothing's changed except for his gawking at Arthur like he's hung the moon and stars. And Arthur trying to wrap his mind around how this changes things.

Things come to a head ten days after the kiss.

Merlin blindsides Arthur as he's walking back from school. The gym building is a few yards behind them and students are still trickling out of it in desultory waves. Plenty of witnesses to go round. But Merlin doesn't care.

He throws himself at Arthur, pushing him into a cul de sac where a file of recycling bins is lined up.

He grabs Arthur by the arm, turns him around, and slams him against the nearest concrete wall, pressing their mouths together. For a moment Arthur's lost; he closes his eyes and parts his lips.

Merlin's tongue slides between them, wet and tentative, searing him with how sweet Merlin's making this. Little tongue flutterings and darts that just seek out his out his own tongue in a shy invitation to come out and play. It doesn't take much and Arthur's a goner.

Stupidly, he lets his body take charge and he returns the kiss. Their tongues brush slowly together, swirling, pushing forward and back, giving and taking.

Their hands are on each other now, Arthur crumpling Merlin's shirt to him, Merlin's fingers white-knuckled at his waist, their mouths crushed together.

Merlin smiles into the kiss. Arthur can feel how his lips curve against his and he is no guise able to think.

His heart starts and stops repeatedly. It soars. Takes wings as his heartbeat leaps away from him. Merlin settles and resettles his lips over his, sliding them together, sealing their mouths in a slow rub.

Arthur's emotions race to meet Merlin's. He's heartbroken with how good this is, with how soft Merlin's lips are, with the spark that Merlin's hot mouth and wet tongue thrill down his spine. He's in love with this. Affection rooted deep in him burns bright and turns into something even brighter.

But he can't. He can't. He's got to think about this. That's why they should have talked. That's why words matter.

“I can't,” he says and pushes Merlin away, as far away as he can make himself to without tearing himself to shreds. “Merlin I can't. We shouldn't.”

Merlin balls his fists at his waist; his pupils widen, his eyes flare with hurt and well with tears Merlin won't shed. “But why? Why? Don't you?I love you. I love you. Why not?”

Merlin couldn't have said anything that hurt more. Arthur's heart expands, but then shrivels with the loss. “Because you're still fifteen,” Arthur rasps.

Even though he's pushed Merlin away, his hands are all tangled up in his prim school shirt. They're splayed over Merlin's shoulder, rucking up the material. The shirt meanwhile has come untucked and now it's more rumpled than's normal, even for Merlin.

“Think,” he says in something that's a smothered shout. “Think about it. You're still fifteen and we share rooms. If they find us out, they'll separate us. Worse, they'll never let us be together again. Because I'm older.”

“You're not even seventeen yet,” Merlin says.

“It still matters,” Arthur says. “I'm the adult here. They'll put the worst spin on this ever. We need to wait, Merlin. We need to be squicky clean. I won't. I won't let them send you away.”

“But we can keep this secret,” says Merlin. “We can keep it to ourselves and not mess around when we're at the Round Table. Come on, Gwaine bragged about having sex when he was still very much not legal.”

“Yeah,” says Arthur, not focusing on Merlin's hopeful expression. “But Gwaine wasn't doing his under-age room-mate, Merlin.”

It's blunt but Merlin gets that. “Arthur, please. I'll do anything.”

Arthur threads his fingers through Merlin's hair, traces his face; his thumb outlines his full lips before pulling Merlin close to him. They're of a height now, Merlin pushing taller perhaps. Arthur leans in, stopping with their mouths only a breath apart so he can feel it when Merlin inhales and exhales.

Arthur doesn't want to heed reason; doesn't want to be the responsible one. But someone's got to be and if it's not Merlin, because Merlin's the daring one between them when it comes to feeling with all his might, then he will. “I can't touch you now. It'd be worse than me being adopted, Merlin. We'd be over for good. Do you want that?”

The sound that Merlin makes, a little stifled wail like a dying animal's, is a clear enough no.

Arthur stares at him; can see how Merlin's holding still, trembling in place all the same. He can feel his fingers digging into his flesh at his waist and appreciate the fight Merlin's fighting.

It looks like he's torn between patience and loss, anger and rejection. But there's something else there too, something like blind trust. Even though he doesn't want to, even though Arthur thinks it abject, he plays on that.

“Do you trust me?”

Merlin's wraps his arm around him. He plasters his body to Arthur's and buries a, “Yes,” in his neck. “There's no one else I trust like you.”

Merlin's so good at laying himself open, at pouring his heart out, that Arthur almost envies him. Almost, at times he's just horrified by the prospect of doing the same and let it be as it might. Let the world come at him.

As it is, he can't think past the weight of Merlin's words, the burden they put on him to look out for him.

“We can make this work, Merlin,” he says, nuzzling his face. He's just said he shouldn't, but he has to take a little bit of this. A little bit to carry him through. It's like he won't be able to breathe if he doesn't touch Merlin. If he loses this. He wants to get so close they'll mesh and fuse and never get untangled. “A few months, Merlin. A few months' patience.”

“I know what I want,” Merlin insists. “I'm not a kid anymore.”

Arthur knows they've all lost something to their status as parent-less children. The bright, confident trust in the future that the other kids at school have. Those privileged kids are so sure of themselves and their place in the world, of their right to be there. They shout it loud and clear with each and every action. The round Table kids are different. They take nothing for granted. It's a kind of maturity, Arthur guesses.

But unlike other Round Table guests, Merlin still has the kind of innocence that slays you. It's there in his eyes. They burn bright. In his smiles. They melt all resistance.

Mithian and Mr Taliesin would be the firsts to point this out. To point out that Merlin could be easily taken advantage of. That there's still a little bit of the child in him. Arthur hopes he'll be like that forever. “They won't think so. They'll say it's against the law. Do you want them to?”

Merlin shakes his head. Arthur has his neck cupped, his fingers tracing whorly patterns at its base, his lips sliding up Merlin's jaw. “No,” Merlin says fiercely. “I won't let them take you.”

It's so bold. It's so Merlin. Arthur has no doubt he'd take over the world for Arthur. It scares him a little but stops doing so the moment he admits to himself that he wouldn't do any less. If they asked him what the limit was of what he'd do for Merlin, Arthur'd say, 'there's no limit'. So he can't exactly reproach Merlin for his attitude. “And they won't. But they mustn't know.”

Merlin's eyes flicker with a devilish light. Arthur has to stop that before Merlin can come up with a stupid plan. “And, no, we're not sneaking out and doing it on the sly. We have nowhere to go and we'd get caught. And then we'd still be in trouble.”

“But it's just for a few months, right?” Merlin asks. “It's not because you don't want me? Or because you want to get back with your ex or--”

Arthur takes Merlin's mouth with his. He rolls his tongue in his mouth and pushes deep, caresses Merlin's, drinks him in. When he draws back he's panting a little. “No, idiot. Have you ever seen me do anything I didn't want to do?”

“You stole that money?” Merlin points out. “You didn't want to do that.”

“That's different,” Arthur says. “I was a bit desperate. And it was the only plan I had.”

“Okay, then,” says Merlin. “If you're not lying--”

Arthur's arms both go around Merlin. One of them circles his middle, fingers splayed over Merlin's side, right where is ribcage stops. He buries the fingers of his other hand in Merlin’s hair, the base of it covering Merlin's nape. He puts his nose to Merlin's throat and husks, “I'm not lying. I'm not. All right, Merlin? I'm not.”

Merlin nods. They're so wrapped around each other, Arthur can sense all of his movements or when he relaxes. “A few months then.”

“Yeah,” Arthur breathes out.

Turning away is impossible, but he makes himself do it. They walk home together, side by side, not touching.

The weeks that follow are odd. They alternate between dancing around each other, straying so close that they don't do anything apart, and drifting away because their togetherness is too much to take when they can't have everything.

At least it's like that for Arthur. The dam has broken and he can't help but want to make their touches linger, their hugs morph and lose their restrained quality. He wants to gather Merlin to him and mesh their limbs together, get his smell in his nostrils and get him to wrap his arms around him.

They've always had each other; and now he wishes it to be true in different ways.

But he's not stupid. He's learnt wisdom. So their plan is still in place.

Spring washes upon them like a breeze. They spend more time in the open, be it the back garden where they bicker and read or do maintenance, or inside, watching telly on the sofa, sides pressed together, the line of Merlin's thigh a warm reminder of his closeness. The beat of his heart. His presence.

Arthur puts his mind to studying, doing his homework because this time he has a goal.

After the disappointment he's given Mr Taliesin, he wants to show that he can be good. That he can be responsible. That he's done with stupidity and can make up for what mistakes he made in the past.

At first it's a bit hard to get back into that groove, especially after having thrown in the towel over the past few months. But he's still determined to do better.

Though younger, Merlin helps him with maths, because he has a knack for it and understands what's on the page instinctively. Sometimes Mithian lends a hand too. Giving him books and proof-reading his assignments.

Arthur's marks improve accordingly. He starts not to fear sitting his GCSEs so much now.

Before that though there's some time yet and something nice to look forward to. It all happens because of his former prospective parents.

Gwen and Lancelot have taken him up on his advice and are now having weekly meetings with Galahad. It's just early stages for now but Galahad is flourishing with them – he calls Lancelot dad already and Gwen mum.

Mithian beams and Galahad's social worker sounds prudently satisfied.

Arthur couldn't have been happier. It's a good thing. The bubbly smile Galahad rewards them with is enough to make Arthur think he's done a good thing. Made people happy by renouncing something that isn't as vital to him as it is for that child.

“See,” Merlin tells him one evening during dinner after he's sneaked a glance at Galahad. “Everything's turned out well.”

“I did bungle things.”

“You thought of someone else's well being though. After the bungling up,” he says. “Look at Galahad. And Lancelot and Gwen smile like daft things every time they come pick him up.”

“Yeah, well, they're going to be good parents to him, I think.”

“Yeah,” says Merlin. “One more good deed for you.”

Arthur reddens and helps Galahad chop up his hamburger.

That Lancelot and Gwen are happy becomes more than clear on the basis of the choices they make.

To show their support of the Round Table, they make a present to Mr Taliesin that serves to fund a spring trip to the seaside for all the kids.

Mr Taliesin and Mithian poll the Round Table's boys and girls on where they'd like to go so they can decide democratically. Even the smallest ones are allowed a vote though most of them have no sense of geography or feasibility. Or how much it'd take -- even with the proceeds of a donation -- to move 15 people plus two adults.

Freya votes for Lyme Regis, because, she says, Jane Austen set a scene of one of her novels there and she's had her nose deep in a tome of her writings ever since Merlin gifted her one for Christmas.

Little Enid, who's six, casts her vote with her, because she looks up to Freya. Most of the boys want to go to Southend on Sea because Adventure Land is close. The other votes are more diverse.

Arthur is ready to go wherever and Merlin is partial to any place where they have old arcade games.

Adventure Land proves too costly, so it's ruled out. Lyme Regis is deputed too boring for most of the kids. They end up in Torbay. It's cheaper. The beaches are family friendly, or so Mithian maintains, and other activities are also on offer. A zoo and a water-park are a stone's throw away and enticing to all. Even to Freya, who loves animals, especially felines, with a passion.

They go on May Day, a bank holiday weekend. On the bus Merlin sits close to him, reading bits of a comic book out to him. Arthur isn't particularly interested in comic books, but he listens anyway because it's Merlin's voice nudging him to attention.

The weather isn't exactly perfect but the sun shines in patches here and there and it doesn't rain. The wind whips up sand along the coastal road but apart from that the temperature is pleasant, the horizon clear and the vista kind of pretty.

Sails dot the harbour and people the green.

A few daring souls go out for paddling, boats for hire torpedoing across the stretch of coast that follows the road.

Merlin tells him he's never seen anything like it. Never seen the sea.

“It's great,” he mumbles. “But the best thing about this is that I'm doing this for the first time and it's with you.”

Arthur coughs low in his throat, a blush bridging his nose. “Never seen the sea before either.”

The first day is reserved for a zoo visit, a crowd pleaser. Mr Taliesin hasn't been able to make it, on a back muscles pain plea, so it falls to Mithian to keep them all in check.

Before they hop off the bus, Mithian asks Arthur to look after the others. “Especially Gareth and Gaheris,” she says. “They're thirteen. I don't trust thirteen-year olds to behave.”

Arthur frowns. “You trusted me, I seem to remember.”

“You're different, Arthur,” she says. He wishes to ask how but finds he can't quite. He's just warmed by the notion that despite all that he's done she trusts him that far. “Okay,” he says. He stops slouching. “I will.”

Because of the responsibility Mithian has saddled him with, he doesn't spend much of the day with Merlin. He needs to keep an eye on the Terrible Duo and he can't if he lets himself focus on the way Merlin walks and talks and bounces around having the time of his life.

He can't if he keeps thinking that he only wants to see Merlin exactly like that, like he's now, jumping from new experience to new experience with a giddy expression on his silly face.

Given that Arthur's otherwise engaged, Merlin keeps to Freya. She's afraid of bears so he steers her away from them; and takes lots of photographs of her next to the wild cats enclosure.

She's afraid of snakes too so he shields her from them by pointing away from the terrarium, saying, "Hey, even Indiana Jones does," and generally making Arthur proud.

Arthur, for his part, rounds the kids; counts them, makes sure they don't slink off and that they don't con the old ice-cream woman out of a few quids.

“You want to make people think we're all delinquents, you numbskulls?” he asks.

Gareth and Gaheris have the good grace to bow their heads and promise they won't do it again. Arthur's not sure that the message has sunk in, but their amenable behaviour is better than nothing. Likely a transient thing, but close to acceptable.

That night Arthur doesn't share with Merlin because Mithian decides to shake things up.

He gets the Riotous Duo and Merlin gets to look after Galahad. Surprisingly Galahad has taken to Merlin in a way that wouldn't have been predictable when he first came.

At first Galahad only took to girls, asked them if they wanted to be his mother, and wouldn't stop fussing unless he was with one. Mithian was his favourite of course, her sweet smiles and fun ways an allure to the kid.

But after Gwen and Lance, he's become more prone to opening up to others and he even lets himself be picked up by Merlin now. And he hangs like a limpet too. Tiny, pudgy arms wrap around his his neck, legs banding around his torso.

Merlin jokes and says he's become a part-time dad.

Not unkindly, Arthur says, “You? Don't make me laugh, Merlin. You forget to feed yourself, your kids'd starve.”

So, they don't share and certainly don't kiss. Okay, they do, once, Galahad's asleep in Merlin's arms, before Merlin makes it back to his room. But it's okay. It was fleeting and nobody's seen.

Arthur watches Merlin go up the stairs and thinks that – despite what he might have said – Merlin would make an excellent dad one day. In the way he's a good student and a loyal friend to Freya and little Galahad.

They finally get to spend the next day on the seaside. It's not a glamorous stretch of seaside by any means. The asphalt parkland is a few paces away and the pier's too close for the water to be unpolluted. But they make do. They stretch on a large beach towel and watch the clouds flit by.

They do so at a lazy pace, a blaze of golden colour behind them.

“What do you think that one looks like?” Merlin asks, surreptitiously covering Arthur's hand with his and twining their fingers.

Arthur squeezes and says, “A bunny?”

Merlin snorts. “You're a little unimaginative.”

“Oi!” Arthur knocks his knee with Merlin's, grains of sand coating his toes. “I'm not. Let's hear it; what do you think it looks like then?”

“A rearing horse,” Merlin says. “A baulking horse that's just knocked off its rider.”

“You're so full of shit,” Arthur says, rolling on his side, head propped on his hand, elbow on the towel, dunes of sand parting on either side of it. “Where do you even see it?”

“I'm not full of shit.” Merlin looks up at him, a grin quirking his lips. “It's knocked its rider off because the man was a prat. A prince. A prattish prince who only wants to joust, no matter how tired his horse is.”

“You should stop filching books from Freya.”

“It was just the one and she let me.”

“Still all that reading is addling your brain.”

“So if reading's out, what should I do then?”

Arthur looks at the stretch of sand, the sun peeking out from the fluffy May clouds. He stands and strips his hoodie. “Come play volley-ball with me.”

Merlin eyes him as if he's a nutter, rolls his eyes, sighs as if getting up from his sprawl is a great challenge, but comes and joins him.

They play for hours, laugh, and shout and call each other names, disturbing a number of sun-bathers, but not Mithian and the other kids, who're used to them.

They get into head-locks over scores, Arthur wanting Merlin to declare him the clear winner, Merlin debating the point. They roll in the sand, flipping each other over until Arthur rolls on top, a hand on Merlin's shoulder, the other close to his head, palm sinking in the sand. He lowers his head and crows, “Just give up.”

“No way.”

“Cry mercy.”

“No-ope.”

“Merlin I can keep you pinned forever.”

“Look, the ice-cream van!” Arthur makes the mistake of looking up and finds himself on his back with Merlin on top, saying, “Now who's crying mercy?” He tilts his head as if to pick out a mumbled answer.

“Never,” Arthur declares.

It takes them a while to get out of that tangle, but in the end they do. For their pains they get sand everywhere -- even in unmentionable places -- and shaking it off proves less easy than it would have seemed at first glance. It was just sand, right? Except no, sand is suspiciously sticky.

“See what you've done,” Arthur says.

“You threw me down.”

“And you did the same!”

The flip each other's bums with their towels to settle the dispute, but that doesn't bring their argument to an end nor prove either right. In the end they go for a truce and decide to have a swim to wash the sand off.

Gareth says, “You two are off your rocker.”

They wade away from shore, but the water's fucking cold. They horseplay however; all the action warms them up fine. They get rid of the sand too, which benefit has become by this point entirely optional. They cavort, dive, do handstands where the water's shallow enough, Merlin humming The Jaws' score when he paddles around Arthur.

They do this and the like until their hands get wrinkly like sun-dried prunes and their noses red from the sun's – albeit pale – reflection on the water.

“But there's no sun!”

“There's just enough apparently.”

They swim out past a bend in the bay and kiss and kiss on the rocks, where none of the others can see them.

They lie close together, Arthur sliding his mouth over Merlin's cheek, kissing his temple, Merlin reaching for his shoulder and sighing up at the sky.

Curling an arm around him and hugging him close, until they're lying chest to chest, water droplets heating with the warmth of their skin, Arthur lays open-mouthed kisses on Merlin's torso.

Loving the flesh on flesh, Arthur anchors his hand on Merlin's shoulder, the one mirroring his, and locks their bodies tight together.

They both snuggle forward, their bodies fitting together, until Arthur can rest his leg over Merlin's.

Merlin's hand swipes down Arthur's back, his mouth close to his until their brows touch.

Arthur’s lips graze Merlin's skin with each breath he takes. He feathers Merlin hair, face and throat with kisses, rests his lips against his forehead and mumbles words that he never thought he'd say before. Because they're momentous, their meaning is. "It's never been like this for me. It's never going to be like this again.”

In response Merlin spends a rain of kisses over Arthur's face until Arthur cups his chin and bends to his throat. He sucks and worries at the skin until Merlin's breath comes sharper and Merlin's erection brushes his hip.

He slows it then, fitting their mouths together and trading lazy kisses that only slowly die out.

They could have done more. Arthur would have leapt at the chance, but but they don't stray. They don't. There's something great in view. And he means to fight for that. Even if it's hard now.

Despite the limitations, despite the quashed drive for sex, it's still a great, no beautiful, day.

The very best. And summer's coming, birthdays and futures unfolding.

 

****

 

When Mithian pops her head in, Arthur closes the book with a dull thud. “I have permission,” he says.

“I don't doubt it,” Mithian tells him, “but the party's starting and I wouldn't want you to miss it.”

“Oh,” Arthur says. “Right, coming.”

Arthur puts the book back on the shelf it came from, making sure it's level with the others so Mr Taliesin won't know which of his books he chose. He's had leave to get whichever ones he wants so he's doing nothing wrong. Still he prefers not to have questions asked.

Order restored in Mr Taliesin's office, Arthur wanders into the common room where the other kids are.

Galahad is sitting on the table, kicking his feet, with a conical party hat on his head. Its strap is cutting into his chin and he fusses with it until Freya fixes it for him. A star that someone glued to his headgear falls off, and Galahad claps his hands together at the fake meteor shower.

Arthur smiles and Merlin surprises him by saying, “I'm going to miss the little bugger.”

“Yeah,” Arthur says. “He's going to forget us once he's with Gwen and Lancelot."

Merlin slants a glance at him, then at Galahad. “You think so?”

“He's so young and going to young parents, they'll be a perfect family before you know it. He'll forget his roots.”

For the second time today someone startles him. It's Gwen. “We don't plan to make him,” she says. “We don't want him to forget what good friends he has in you two.”

Arthur leans against the door jamb. “Really? I mean I know you mean well but things happen. How can you be so sure of the future? Unless you fight for it?”

Gwen wraps her hand around Arthur's arm. “We won't let him forget. Friends like you, Arthur, are rare. We aren't going to allow you to drop by the wayside. I hope you know that. I hope you'll takes us up on our offer of being friends.”

Arthur scratches at his head. “I will. I promise.” He swings to Merlin and says, “Merlin, could you get me a coke?”

Merlin rolls his eyes at him but goes, even though not meekly. “In another life I'd have been his page or something,” he says, sharing the joke with Gwen.

His going gives Arthur the opportunity he needs. “Actually, I was going to take you up on a little more than that,” he tells Gwen. He sucks in a breath and ploughs on, “I need some help.”

Gwen's eyes soften and she tilts his head as if to listen closely. “Please, tell me how and I will.”

“I just need to make sure I'll pass my GCSEs. It's important I do well. For next year.”

“I'll lend a hand, sure,” Gwen says, smiling. She looks relieved. “I can do that. I was hoping you'd rethink dropping out.”

“I haven't as such,” Arthur says. “But it's just one of a few possibilities now. One of them is still getting a job. I talked to Gwaine and there's the prospect of an opening at his building firm.”

“Oh that's a good plan to fall back on,” Gwen says. “In case other things don't pan out.”

“But that's not all,” Arthur steamrollers on. “I may need a character witness in future. I realise that's a bit rich of me to be asking that after what I've done to you. But I'm going to prove myself to you this year. You'll see.”

Gwen looks confused, her eyes questioning. Arthur gets why but he can't say he's prepared to explain for the time being. He hopes she won't probe. That despite everything she'll trust him that far. “I'll help you but I'm not sure why you would need a witness? Is that for a job?”

Arthur pats Gwen on the shoulder. “It won't be for months. No need to worry now. Especially since it's a good thing.”

Gwen opens her mouth to argue but Merlin comes back with a glass of coke and Arthur makes eyes at her to plead for her silence. She seems to get it, for she compliments Merlin on his party decorating and doesn't broach the subject of Arthur's request again. “They told you I was the one charged with it?” Merlin grins broadly.

“Yeah, they did,” she says enthusiastically. “It's pretty great. I'm sure everyone is loving what you did.”

Merlin shrugs his shoulders. “I know Galahad is three and not likely to really be into it or realise there's been any decorating that went into this, but we're taking pictures for him to remember us by. And I want them to look pretty. So he'll know, you know?”

“Remember, we're going to bring him over from time to time,” Gwen reminds Merlin. “Even if he's moving in with us.”

Merlin's smile is lovely in its sheepishness. “Well, I want Galahad to have these little testimonials of our love. For when he's older. So he has no doubts about it.”

“Oh, Merlin,” Gwen says, squeezing his hand. “You're such a lovely boy.”

Merlin seems flattered; he reddens from his neck to the top of his head and his sentences become less and less coherent. Arthur thinks that Gwen's praise has distracted Merlin well enough for him to forget about the mystery of his and Gwen's silent exchange. But he's miscalculated. Telling Gwen he needs Arthur for a moment, Merlin pulls him aside and whirls on him.

“What was that?” he asks, jabbing a finger at Arthur's chest.

Arthur plays it as smoothly as he can. “What was what?”

“When I turned up you stopped telling Gwen whatever it was you were saying,” says Merlin. “You have secrets. I don't like that.”

Arthur laughs it off. “Come off it, Merlin,” he says. “I just asked her for some help with school and recommendations. Nothing major. Nothing secret.”

Merlin lifts his eyes to meet Arthur's and then quickly drops them to stare at the floor. “Mmm,” he says. “If you're so sure.”

Arthur's convinced Merlin will poke at that later on but for now he knows Merlin won't sour everybody else's party mood. They owe it to Galahad to make his farewell party work. Not to weigh it down with their own worries. It's not every day that a child goes to live with his soon-to-be adoptive parents. The occasion is very special and they all feel like they have to treat it as such.

There's music of the kind a three-year old might like, with appropriate words and cheerful choruses. There's sweets and presents for Galahad, a representation of the giver, so that they may be remembered by them.

Merlin gives Galahad a wooden unicorn, saying to Arthur, “Just so you know there goes the money for your birthday present.”

Arthur's hip bumps Merlin. “Why, thank you, Merlin. And here I was thinking you loved me.”

Merlin looks away, angling his body so he's presenting his back to Arthur. “You know I do, more than anything ever,” he rushes out. Before Arthur can process the weight of Merlin's words, Merlin's darted off to monitor the little kids playing balloon bop.

Because there's games too.

Besides with Mithian off to chat amiably with Gwen, Merlin's supervision is needed. God knows what toddlers can do given the input and the occasion. Arthur just keeps to himself, watching Merlin directing the festivities.

He's loved by all the younger kids so he's being basically held hostage by them.

They only get a chance to exchange a few words once Galahad's gone with Gwen and Lancelot and they've tidied everything up downstairs.

“You don't mind it, do you?” Merlin asks, binning a cartload of streamers and plastic bowls. “That they've settled for him?”

“Lance and Gwen you mean?”

Merlin nods, tying up the bin liner.

“It seems to me I've told you already.”

Merlin replaces the bin liner. “Yes, but all that secrecy back there with Gwen. I can't help but think that you've reconsidered. I know you would hide nothing from me unless it was something you thought was going to hurt me.”

Merlin heaves the full bin liner and edges past him, walking out the back door and into garden. Arthur follows him, saying, “Now that's unfair.”

Merlin dumps the liner in the wheelie bin. “Is it? Then why are you being so mysterious? We've always told each other everything. I don't see what's changed.”

A dash of red appears to bridge Arthur's nose. “Nothing has. I promise. I'll never break a promise I made you.” Arthur turns him round, a hand on his shoulder. “Never.”

Merlin looks at his feet but nods his head. “All right. I'm sorry. You know I believe in you.”

Arthur knows that and hopes Merlin will appreciate how he's going about this when the time comes. In the meanwhile there's no need to put the cart before the horses. There's time and they've got so much to share and look forward to yet. The minutiae of this won't matter to anyone once they've got where they want to be.

Merlin seems to accept his reticence.

“Let's go back inside.”

Days pass and summer approaches. Temperatures rise and instead of spending his days outside as he wants to, the sun an inducement, Arthur holes himself in and crams.

At times he's got more than one tome open before him, Maths and English, Science and IT, among others.

Merlin quizzes him, checking the answers on the back of the worksheets Arthur's using. And he's patient at it, even when Arthur is chomping at the bit, or giving him short barks of annoyance after he's given a wrong answer. Merlin doesn't deservethat at all.

Not after he's basically assisted Arthur with this when he could have gone and enjoyed the summer weather.

Merlin just says, “Short fuse, I see,” and smiles.

Arthur's appreciation of Merlin's unflappability rises they more he revises.

The day of his exams dawns bright. Irony of ironies. Arthur is as stiff as a board as he walks to school. So many things hinge on him doing well and all of them are so important. Merlin escorts him up to the main entrance, squeezes his hand and ironically promises him an apple if he does well.

“What if I don't?” Arthur asks. “What if I cock it all up?”

Arthur watches his fellow students file up the stairs while he keeps loitering at their base.

Merlin tells him, “Arthur, you're caught up with the others. You've worked hard. Now don't think about anything else but passing and making your classmates eat their hearts out.”

“It's not a competition, Merlin,” Arthur says, scoffing.

“But if it isn't, what are you worrying about?” He taps his upper lip.

Arthur's own lips stretch into a smile; he ruffles Merlin's hair. “Nothing.” He looks at the stairs and then at Merlin, shoulders lifting.

He breathes in and jogs up the stairs, only to stop halfway up. When he's there, he turns around, trots back down, and smashes Merlin to his chest in a vigorous embrace. Only after Merlin's wrapped his arms around him does Arthur go.

After the exam, he has to wait for his results. He thinks that he's answered a fair amount of questions, no blank answers, and that he's ticked a decent amount of boxes, but he can't be sure of how well he's done. It's eating at him. It doesn't help that he will only know for sure roundabout his birthday.

Not a nice way to celebrate turning seventeen if he's not made the pass mark in anything. Though hopefully, he might get a D here and there.

Arthur spends the afternoons leading up to his birthday in his room, stretched on his bed, looking at the ceiling and drumming his fingers on his belly. He's tried busying himself downstairs, but he's mind just isn't in any of his chores. He keeps trying to remember the answers he gave and checking them against his textbooks.

Merlin surprises him in just such a slump one evening after dinner. It's the eve of his birthday.

“You're looking glum,” Merlin says, closing the door behind him and sitting on his bed, feet on the floor, perpendicular to the straight line of Arthur's body.

“No I'm not.”

“You are from where I'm standing.”

“Merlin!” Arthur sits up against the headboard. “Don't be ridiculous.”

Merlin places his palm where Arthur's shirt ridden up. “I have a present for you.”

Arthur says, “You said you spent everything you had on Galahad.”

Merlin leans forward, moving up the bed, a knee on the mattress. He's hovering over Arthur now, his breath washing his cheek in warmth. “Who said my birthday present had anything to do with money?”

“It's usually like that? Unless we're talking writing me poetry or some piece of DIY.”

Merlin strokes Arthur neck with his thumb. He laughs softly bright. “It's neither.”

He bends lower and sucks a wet kiss on Arthur's lips. A moment later Arthur parts his mouth. The tip of Merlin's tongue quests for Arthur's and, as it deepens, Arthur sighs into the kiss.

Pressing at it, Arthur kneads the muscle of Merlin's thigh, his other hand at the small of Merlin's back, egging him on even while knowing this shouldn't be taking place.

Not on a bed, where they might be tempted to go further. Not here at the Round Table, where there's others around. Authority figures who won't approve however much they explain they can't do without each other.

That being without each other is impossible. That this is as inevitable as them being them is. Arthur's done thinking this is not the right way for him and now being with Merlin seems the only possible choice given who they are.

Evidently of a mind with him, Merlin mounts him and Arthur's head sinks into the pillow as Merlin's lips trace his throat.

“The present is me,” Merlin says over the busy pounding of Arthur's heart. The flutter of Merlin's breath on his skin is enough to make Arthur swell in his trousers.

“We can't,” Arthur says. “Three more months. It's just...” He pants it out, “We've only got to wait three more months.”

Merlin's shuddering on top of him. His teeth rake Arthur's throat by mistake. “Sorry,” he says, and then an “Oh” slips out of his mouth when he realises that Arthur likes it. Likes the edge of teeth in his kisses, likes the weight of Merlin on him, Merlin's nipping teeth turning him on like nothing else ever.

Arthur sobs like it's a prayer.

Merlin fumbles with the buttons of Arthur's trousers, pulls his shorts down, so they're down his hips. He gets Arthur's cock out of his boxers, and touches it with his long, clever fingers.

“Ah.”

His boxers go fully down this time.

Stutteringly, Merlin pulls on Arthur's cock, his angle all wrong, the contact so good all the same. It's the first time Merlin's touched him so, bare hands and nothing between them.

At first Arthur thinks he can't come like this, Merlin's too unsure, but then warmth licks at his spine and his thoughts scatter. A low moan escapes his lips, a moan that quickens Merlin's breath and the movements of his hand. The slap of it on his flesh.

“I can't, I can't, I cant,” Arthur says. His back arches in spite of his denial.

Merlin dips a finger nail in Arthur's slit, exploratory and unsure. He twists his wrist. It nearly hurts it's so perfect.

Arthur wants to say, 'keep doing that', but doesn't.

Merlin catches on though. He makes a fist of his hand, speeds up.

Unable to hold back, Arthur pumps his hips, hoping the mattress won't creak. Can't creak. Please, God. Don't make it. This is their secret. Until they're out of here and both not depending on others it is.

Fear doesn't stifle his rise to climax.

Arthur can't help it; his mouth goes slack, Merlin covers it with his and kisses him deep while Arthur squirts ropes of come over his knuckles.

Mind a blank, Arthur shudders and goes still. Merlin pulls away, resting his cheek upon his leg. “I did you. You don't have to touch me till I'm sixteen. I'll go wank in the loo.”

“Doesn't work like that,” Arthur croaks, even as he strokes Merlin's hair. Gently. A measure of a love he can't name the limits of. His cock's still hanging out of his trousers, going limp by degrees. “You know that, don't you?”

Arthur feels Merlin shrug. “What's three months?” he asks, his breathing settling. "Not going to make a difference as to what I want, are they?" Even so he tenses when they hear footsteps outside. Holds his breath like Arthur does. Like it's the end of the world. It might well be.

It isn't. Whoeve's made that noise is gone. When they go and check it's to find the corridor clear and the house enveloped in its usual evening hush.

Someone's watching telly downstairs, the volume's been turned up so they can hear the lines of the film that is being aired. No one is likely to have noticed the noises coming from their room with a screen war raging on.

Even so it's been a right scare.

“Phew,” Merlin says.

“Merlin, no more of this. All right? Not till you're sixteen.”

A scuff of toes on the floor. “Okay, Arthur.”

Two days after Merlin's rushed hand-job, Arthur gets his results and finds that he's done better than he expected and that he’s passed with sufficient marks in more subjects than he would have thought. He's even got an A and two Bs.

With those marks to testify that he's good for something, Arthur's got his future in his hands.

 

****

Arthur confronts the calendar. It's three days to the one he's marked in red. He scratches a hand through his hair and blows air through his lips.

He clomps down the stairs to go and find Mithian.

She's sitting in the window seat, the low sun slanting over her in a shaft of light that comes in through the panes, giving her a golden halo. She's wearing frayed jeans and her narrow, long feet are bare, her toes curling in the plush rug under her feet. She's nursing a mug of something that's sending off little clouds of vapour.

“Mithian, hi, Mithian,” Arthur hails her.

Mithian has a subtle Mona Lisa smile on her lips and startles when she hears him. “Arthur, what? Is anything the matter?”

Arthur smiles to show that everything's more than fine. “I'm okay,” he says. “Fine. Glorious. But I was wondering if you could allow me something that's a bit of a stretch.”

Arthur has to give it to her, despite his opening, she's unfazed. “Go on, shoot.”

“I... I know it's against the rules but I want to take Merlin out for his birthday. And spend the night out.”

“All night?” Mithian asks. “That's a lot to ask.”

“Yeah,” Arthur says. “I have a special birthday present in mind. I want to take him hot-air ballooning. A lady friend of Gwaine's works for Virgin and they do this thing. She gave Gwaine free tickets for a ride but Gwaine's...”

“Always been air-sick,” Mithian finishes for him, showing how she's not forgotten anything about any of the boys that have at one time or another been at the Round Table. “I know.”

“So he passed them on to me,” Arthur explains. “Now I have them and I know Merlin's going to love it. Only I couldn't choose the venue. And the airfield is in Aylesbury. No way we can get back before the last train leaves.”

Mithian's eyebrow goes up a fraction. “I shouldn't say yes.”

“He's turning sixteen, Mithian, please.”

“But I'm rather mellowly happy today so I'll say yes. Mind you, I can't let you use Round Table funds for the trip and you'll have to get back early in the morning on the day after.”

“I've got the money,” says Arthur. “I helped Gwaine's team in the afternoons over the last week. I have that covered. And I promise we'll be out of Aylesbury as early as possible on the next morning.”

“In that case...” Mithian's cheeks get dimples. “...you can go.”

Arthur almost jumps up and down. He wasn't sure he could have persuaded Mithian. But apparently he has. He doesn't know why he has. He was prepared to a myriad objections from her but apart from the ones he had answers for no other has come up. “Wait.” He frowns. “What do you mean you're mellowly happy?”

Mithian shrugs but her eyes are smiling in such a way it's like she's waiting for the question to be asked. “I don't get it,” he says. “Why?”

Mithian puts her mug down so it rests on the wooden sill. She turns, puts her feet down and stands up. In her previous pose her body had been hunched and closed, but now it's open. Her hand slips down to cover her belly. “I wanted to wait to share the good news with the rest of you, because it might not be easy to grasp for the younger kids who look to me as their mum, but I feel I can tell you. I'm pregnant.”

Arthur's jaw slips open in a catching flies expression, then a manic smile appears on his lips, he wraps his arms around Mithian, and he lifts her and twirls her, his nose in her neck, laughing and telling her how fantastic it all is.

He catches sight of Grunhilda wielding a duster and scowling at him so he puts Mithian down. He pats her shoulders, hopes he wasn't too rough with her since she has a child on board, and says, “No really, congratulations. I'm so happy for you.”

“I'm happy too,” she says. “Just don't tell the other kids yet.”

Arthur hears Grunhilda stomp off and mutter. He doesn't pay any attention to her since she's always grumpy and malevolent, rather he focuses on Mithian and her happiness. “Don't worry.” He mimes zipping his lips. “I won't tell.” He pauses and hurries his next words out. “You'll be a great mum,” Arthur says. “You'll make your boy a wonderful parent.”

Mithian laughs softly. “How do you even know it's a boy?”

Arthur goes cross-eyed at that. Honestly, he does know that it's fifty-fifty odds, but he's pictured a little boy from the moment Mithian said she was preggers. The boy in his imaginings is faceless as of yet but he's a giggly child. Not like Merlin was. He's more like...

He imagines a blond stroppy boy who reaches out to her, hands pudgy and grubby, maybe stained with chocolate. He imagines him stomping his feet so she will pick him up and soothe him. He imagines him placing a wet, childlike kiss on her cheek. Arthur doesn't share his fantasy mental image with her. “It's a boy thing,” he says and leaves it at that. “Anyway, congrats!”

He's not sure whether she's seen through him but she accepts his well-wishes and even lets him skim a hand over her belly, which is still pretty much flat.

“There's no kicking yet,” she says, but Arthur grins all the same and says, “Doesn't matter, it's just....” Awe inspiring, he guesses. “Great,” he says.

Grunhilda potters back and this time she interrupts them before Mithian can answer Arthur's remark.

“I've cleaned everywhere downstairs,” she says, looking daggers at Arthur. It's a death glare worse than any of the scowls she's sent him before. “But it won't stay clean for long thanks to your pests. I'm going home because I'm not doing overtime.”

Arthur folds his arms across his chest, feeling Grunihilda's gaze piercing him in an uncomfortable way. If looks could kill that one would.

“Thank you, Grunhilda,” Mithian says. “I hope you're aware that we're not pushing for you to do anything more than is in your contract.”

The grumble that comes out of Grunhilda's mouth is so garbled that it can't be compared to actual words. She just keeps eyeing Arthur malevolently, trailing off with, “I won't be conned into doing more than's written down, that's for sure.”

She plods off, muttering under her breath.

“That was odd,” Mithian says, watching her go. She turns to Arthur and changes the subject. “Arthur, I trust you,” she adds and Arthur knows that she's talking about his Aylesbury request. For a moment Arthur feels like she knows and she's attempting to warn him off, but then decides it can't be. She wouldn't be smiling eagerly if she was aware of the truth. She wouldn't look at him full of confidence in him.

He's sure nobody can understand him and Merlin.

“I only want Merlin to have a birthday that's different,” he says. “I don't want him to be constantly reminded of being an orphan.” That's most of the truth anwyay. “This is going to be a birthday like any other guy gets.”

Mithian's smile speaks of her understanding.

When he tells Merlin about the birthday plans, Arthur can see that Merlin is itching to give him one of his clingy hugs. But he doesn't because he realises they have more to lose now if one of their gestures is read wrong. Or rather right.

His enthusiasm is clear for everyone to see though because he starts packing that same evening. Freya notices and tells him there's plenty of time. But Merlin counters that with, “Yeah, but I can't stand still. I've got to do something. This is my first holiday.”

“Not really,” Freya points out. “Your first holiday was with us. Remember Torbay?”

“It's the first with--” Merlin says, considers Arthur, then finishes with, “It's the first on my own.”

On the morning of his birthday Merlin wakes Arthur by jumping on his bed and saying, “We've got to leave.”

“Our train is at ten, Merlin,” Arthur says. He cranes his neck to have a look at the window. It's so early there's still moonshine. The sun is not even planning to come up. Arthur groans, “What time is it, Merlin?”

“It might be five.”

“Might?”

“Is.”

“Merliiin!”

Merlin kisses Arthur's rage away, his open lips cover Arthur's, his body nudging his. He's dressed already but he's soft and pliable as he would be were he about to go to sleep.

They trade lazy kisses, their lips rubbing together, and sliding wetly one on top of the other. Arthur breathes a few words against Merlin's lips. “We can nod off for another couple of hours, you know.”

“But--” Arthur takes Merlin's mouth.

“Two hours.”

“Okay but--”

“You don't need to get back to your bed,” Arthur tells him, noticing that Merlin's quite cosy where he is. Merlin flashes him a grin and settles against his side, his head on the same pillow as Arthur.

They fall asleep and wake when the alarm goes off. The first thing they see is each other's eyes; the first thing they taste is each other's lips.

“I like waking like this,” Merlin says. “With you.”

Arthur has to keep himself in check so as not to blurt everything out. He only stops because he remembers that it's Merlin's birthday and he's planned for it to go in a certain way. It's a bit like he's staged it and he doesn't want to veer off script. Not when he thinks his script is so amazing.

They travel by train and alight at the Buckinghamshire Railway centre. The launch strip is not very far from the station itself and they go there without checking in at their hotel.

They meet the bloke who'll take them up, who takes Arthur's tickets for the ride and describes what they will be doing, what they will be seeing and the safety measures involved. “Other than that just enjoy,” he says, leading them to the balloon and into the basket.

Flames lift the balloon off the ground; they draw its bulk slowly off as the chute rises and the gas bag drifts slowly over the launch pad, the crew tugging at the securing lines. The crew, they're told, must man the thing carefully and let go of the ropes at the same time lest they capsize.

Arthur isn't afraid of this nor is Merlin.

The take off is breath-taking. Arthur's never flown before and he has to admit that the experience is unique. Thrilling. They drift upwards; the basket, once freed from its earthbound position, swinging a bit, making Arthur a little dizzy.

Merlin's shouting, “Whooohooo!” as the ground gets farther and farther away from them. As they gain elevation they see an old steam locomotive chugging its way along the track. And as they go higher still they get a view of Aylesbury Vale.

“That's the Chiltern Hills to the south,” says their pilot. “And over there--” he points and hands them a pair of binoculars each. “--there's Waddeston Manor. It's got 750 acres of garden and was designed by Capability Brown.”

Arthur doesn't care about these factoids but can appreciate the view over Oxford and Bicester as much as the next person – though not perhaps as much as Merlin.

Merlin sounds enthusiastic, his voice pitched high, his eyes dreamy as he asks the man steering them how it is they can be flying without an engine, what it is they're seeing.

The man takes a shine to Merlin, for his explanations go pretty much in depth. “We're drifting over Aylesbury now. See that spire? That's St Mary’s Church. The whole area is very old. Market Square dates back to the 13th century and is still the centre of town. We all slum there basically.”

The man grows talkative, smiling at Merlin in a way that doesn't make Arthur too happy considering how much younger than him Merlin is. “You see that building down there? That's the King’s Head pub. I strongly advise you to drop by if you're staying over.”

Arthur barks a short, “We have other plans,” that has Merlin side-eyeing him and muttering, “What's the matter?”

“You're sixteen, that's the matter.”

Merlin elbows him. “I thought that was the point. Me being finally sixteen.”

“Well, it's not for tall and lecherous balloon guys to benefit from.”

Merlin busily adjusts the strap of his binoculars. “I'd never ever care about him, grumpy pants.”

Arthur can stomach their loquacious pilot much better after that.

They climb higher and higher until at last they have to go down. As soon as they've touched ground Merlin throws himself in his arms. “Thank you,” he says, burying his nose in Arthur's neck. “Thanks. I'll never forget the experience.”

“You liked it. I knew you would. I'm pretty much an organisational genius, aren't I?” Arthur pats Merlin's back and tries for a silly smile because the moment's overwhelming him. He's never seen such wide smiles from Merlin before even though Merlin's not the kind of person to cut down on those. He's never felt his body thrumming like this, like every muscle he has is primed for more action. “Let's take you out to eat. You're skin and bones.”

Arthur says that with a croak, like the invitation to have a burger out is somewhat more important than what it is. They trek back to town because there's no other means of transport and they can't afford a taxi. It's afternoon by the time they manage to get to the King's Head.

Arthur lets Merlin order himself whatever he wants and it's quite a lot. Arthur opts for chips he eats so quickly they disappear in under three minutes. “Wow,” Merlin says. “In a hurry?”

Arthur wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “What? No.”

Merlin gobbles up the last of his onion rings and says, “You know, I'm looking forward to being alone with you too. But I'm a tad hungry.”

“Eat away,” Arthur says, jiggling his leg against the stool's rung.

“So you'd be okay with it if I got second helpings?”

Arthur's mouth falls open.

“You're catching flies,” Merlin tells him. He feeds Arthur one of his onion rings. “But it's nice to know you lie appallingly.”

Arthur draws himself up. “I don't!”

“So you're claiming you do it well.”

“No!”

“Calm down, Arthur,” Merlin says, leaning close. “I'm just pulling your leg. I want to get to our room too.”

They make it back to their hotel in under six minutes. It's a simple establishment but they're sure to get the basic comfort of a bed. They race each other to their room, goose flesh playing on Arthur's skin, Arthur's heart thrumming in his chest, his breath coming in laboured gasps that are all about how much he's looking forward to what's going to happen in a moment. Or more like now.

They fumble with the key, the door falling shut behind them with a loud thud.

They stand there, panting, dropping their rucksacks and looking hungrily at each other.

For two people who've grown up together they've never shared a moment like this. They've never been entirely alone; never been entirely responsible for what happens between them. They've hidden their fumblings and broken the rules. Occasionally they've followed them. But it's always been in relation to someone else. Someone dictating what they should do.

Whichever course they now take is on them. This is their first free choice ever.

Arthur's chest tightens. A longing, like homesickness takes him over. Because Merlin's his home. A spark like electricity crosses his nerves. Because Merlin's the only one. He doesn't say anything about that. He can't do anything for a moment but drink in air and wet his lips.

Merlin is looking at him in open invitation. Arthur inches a smooth step towards him. Merlin bridges the gap and Arthur stands there, stroking his fingers through his hair. “So,” he says.

“So,” Merlin tells him. “I think we should, you know, undress.” Merlin doesn't proceed to do that though. “Unless you'd rather not.”

Arthur laughs. “No I think I rather want to.”

They strip in front of each other and while they've seen bits of each other's body before, they've never stood naked in front of anyone before.

The results are breath-taking. Merlin's naked body is a sight to see. He's grown so much he stands taller than Arthur now. He's still stick thin but his limbs are graceful and elongated, having a beauty of their own Arthur wouldn't have known if not for this moment of perfect clarity.

So far he's seen Merlin through a peculiar brand of rose tinted glasses. It's not that he's pictured him as handsomer than he is. Quite the contrary. But to him Merlin's always been this wonderful kid, a year and some younger than him, whom Arthur would die to protect. Guard over. Now Arthur's seeing the man Merlin's turning into.

And that man's amazing. His body is. Arthur can't help but rove his eyes over Merlin's wide shoulders, thin waist, and pink cock that's starting to come out of his sheath.

He's hot. Merlin is. Heat swamps Arthur; his throat stiffens tight like he can't swallow.

It's Merlin that brings him to him because Arthur almost freezes with want, hunger and the knowledge this is one of those moments everything hangs on. It's Merlin who brushes his lips on his forehead and gets them in an embrace.

They stagger to the bed without quite letting go one of the other, Arthur only bending a moment to fish condoms and lube out of his rucksack's side pocket. Merlin cradles him in his arms, between his legs, Arthur on top of him on the bed.

Their kisses are languid and heavy, their hands make the most of their naked bodies, slipping, sliding, making of touch a new experience.

Arthur's hands fatten Merlin's cock till it's stiffer than before and glistening at the end. He roams kisses along his bare chest, drawing a nipple in his mouth until it goes rigid and Merlin shudders. Blushes rise. Merlin's hands plane down his back, his knees bracketing Arthur's sides, keeping him in place.

Arthur sucks kisses lover down, following a trail of his own that goes from the hollow at the base of Merlin's throat to his navel. He covers Merlin's cock, which is lifted slightly from his belly, in as many wet, open-mouthed kisses as he can.

The attention makes Merlin buck and make croaked noises. He draws a leg upward, his heel on the back of Arthur's thigh. As he sobs and rants and begs Arthur, he starts rubbing himself against Arthur so their cocks slide and slap wetly together.

Arthur reaches between their bodies and grips Merlin tight, the pulls he gives his cock enough to make it throb and spurt drops of pre-come.

A throaty moan comes out of Merlin's throat; it shakes Arthur too. “Arthur,” Merlin tells him, “I want to do more this time.”

Arthur noses Merlin's skin. “You really sure?”

“Yeah, we're not getting any more of this when we get back.”

Arthur props his chin on the hollow where Merlin's ribs end. “Not a good enough reason.”

“It is,” Merlin says. “I love you and I want this and I don't want to postpone to God knows when. I thought we'd come here to do it.”

Arthur can't deny it was in the plans. “True.”

“So what are we waiting for?”

Arthur's lips stretch wide. “All right.”

Arthur fumbles for the lube and pours too much of it onto his hand before dipping a finger inside Merlin. It slides inside easily. He has to bite his lip because Merlin's sobbing in pleasure and that's driving Arthur right out of his mind.

Merlin's soft inside and clutching at him. When Arthur pushes one more finger in, Merlin's muscles give enough to let him brush Merlin's prostate. Merlin's reaction leaves him speechless it's so beautiful; it makes his heart race and feel way too enormous for his chest. He manages to get Merlin to keen and bite his fist.

He does it for each jab and press. He manages to wrest noises out of him he's never heard before. At one point Merlin arches right off the bed, the long, lean lines of his body taut, his skin pulled tight as the sun dances its rays across it. Merlin's never looked better.

Arthur can see this is too much for him. Probably for them both. Merlin's cock's leaking wetness all over the head already. A little more and he'd be spurting his orgasm out.

It's time. Merlin confirms that when he says, “Come on, Arthur, please, Arthur.” His name on Merlin's lips thirty times a minute.

Just to make sure that the penetration won't hurt, Arthur stuffs more lube in, past Merlin's reddening hole, greasing his way in.

After having put his condom on and lubed himself up, Arthur climbs between Merlin's legs. He uses his knees to press Merlin's bunched up thighs further apart, burning with a fever to come that he's never known before. Not when he's tossed off in his room, not with his girlfriend, and never ever anyway. He'd never have believed you could actually feel like this.

Arthur gnaws on his lip as he lowers himself and drives himself in, Merlin's resistance breached. He watches the curve of his prick stretch Merlin's arse.

His face flames at that. He has to close his eyes against the sight because it's too much on top of how it all feels and he'd be making a fool of himself in a second flat if he got a closer look at how Merlin's flesh is closing around him.

It's... God. It's good. Hot, wet and tight in a way he's never known.

He's never been inside anyone. Despite his fumblings with Bran, he's never done this and the action is impacting him like nothing else.

He has Merlin. Has him to hold, to touch and to give pleasure to. Arthur's love for Merlin blooms large in his chest and under his skin till he can feel nothing but that.

He tries to balance himself on top of Merlin, muttering, "I've got you."

“I know,” Merlin tells him. “Got you too.”

Arthur lies over him, nipping at his shoulder blades, neck and ears, cock pumping harder and harder against his arse, their breath coming faster too. His mouth seeks more of Merlin's mouth until their kiss stutters and Arthur starts planting haphazard kisses everywhere, sucking them on Merlin's throat with determination.

As he rocks his hips faster against Merlin, the head of his cock stroking over Merlin's prostate, they both curse.

Arthur's chest muscles ripple; his hips move in jerky little twitches. Meanwhile his heart twists at the silly endearments Merlin fires at him, at the awed look he's reserved for Arthur, as if Arthur's remaking him or giving him the biggest present ever.

Arthur now wants nothing better than to see Merlin come. He wraps a palm around Merlin's dick and pulls, jerking him off with rough strokes. Merlin comes, sending thick ropes of come everywhere, flopping back down with the shudders when he's done.

Arthur himself picks up his pace, rocking fast into Merlin to the rhythm of his own grunts and sobs. He finally reaches his peak, pulls out, and slams back in, the wet slap of flesh on flesh punctuating the action.

His head falling backwards, he loses it. He comes. It's as if he's spilling all that he is and will ever be and this is the one most fantastic moments in his entire life.

Later, when they're cleaner and sharing the bed, Merlin says. “I want to be doing this forever.”

Arthur's too dazed and high to think of anything but the most perfect future. “We will be.”

Merlin threads their fingers together. “You never think things through, do you? In a few months you'll be eighteen and going away.”

Arthur rolls onto his back and smiles at the ceiling.

Merlin huffs. “Either sex has made a simpleton out of you or you're happy you'll be dumping me.”

Arthur rubs at his belly, at his balls. “It's neither.”

“Now you sound potty.”

Arthur flicks a look at Merlin. “I'm not potty. I have a plan.”

Merlin's brow furrows like an old man's. “What kind of plan?” he asks, sounding doubtful.

“Have a little faith, Merlin,” Arthur says even while Merlin climbs on top of him and plants both hands either side of his face. He squints and says, “Out with the truth or I'll bite your nose off.”

Arthur goes cross-eyed Merlin's face is so close to his. “You wouldn't. You like my nose.”

“I do but when the end justifies the means...”

Even though he wants to share, Arthur prolongs their game. “I won't be telling you,” he declares dramatically.

“You won't, will you? Let's see what you do after a tickle fight.”

Only after they've rolled on the bed squealing like baby pigs and laughing like crazy do they settle down, Arthur 'yielding'. “Okay, all right,” Arthur says. “I'll fess up.”

“It was high time.”

“You're right, I'll have to go, but you're coming with.”

Merlin says, “I'm a year and a half younger,” as if Arthur's stupid and doesn't know that.

“I know,” Arthur says. “You'll be coming with because I'll be applying for special guardianship.” Arthur's not sure Merlin's understood, so he reformulates. “I'm going to be your legal guardian.”

“But you can't be,” Merlin says, getting off him and sitting up against the headboard. He cranes his neck to look at him.

“The law says I can.”

“But you're only gonna be eighteen when you leave.”

“And that's the age requirement for special guardianship,” Arthur says. “You don't need to be older, like for adoption. And it's not like I would be adopting you either. I'd just be your guardian till you hit eighteen yourself.”

“And that can be done?” Merlin probes.

“Sure.” Arthur's studied the law to make sure. All of his borrowing of Mr Taliesin's books has been geared towards this. “Any person who has leave of the court can apply.” Arthur's quoting Mr Taliesin's book but he hopes that's going to lend an air of respectability to what he's saying.

“And that's it?” Merlin asks, eyebrows still straining one towards the other.

“Lancelot and Gwen's character witness is going to help,” Arthur says, “and I'm sure I'll get the consent of those who have parental responsibility over you. Because that's Mithian and Taliesin and they'll see that's the best thing for us. Anyway I could act even without any of that. I just need to apply to the court three months in advance. For notice.”

Merlin's looking less doubtful. He smiles with his fat bottom lip caught in his teeth. “So once the judge says 'yes' I can move in with you? And we'd never be apart?”

“Well, yes, that was my birthday present.”

“I thought the balloon ride was.”

“No, this is.”

“I love both my presents!” Merlin says, grabbing him by the neck to kiss him. “Especially the second one. It's going to be us against the world. You'll see. It's going to be epic.”

 

****

 

Arthur moves the last box but one into his new room. It looks bare enough with white-washed walls and next to no furniture but at least there's a bed. An unmade bed, more like a mattress bearing a few pillows, but a bed all the same. He wipes his hands together and his arm over his brow.

“Don't tell me there's more,” says Gwaine. “Because I'm done lumbering your stuff.”

Arthur cranes his neck and cants an eyebrow. “I've taken all these up myself.” He pushes at one of the boxes with the sole of his foot to indicate the hard proof of his labours.

“Yeah well,” Gwaine tells him, “I was saying that just in case you're thinking I'm helping you at all.”

“I would never have thought you'd do that,” Arthur says. “You actually doing any work off hours? Impossible.”

“Hey,” Gwaine says, “remember who found you the job and who's become your new flatmate, ceding a perfectly nice room that might have gone to someone who actually had, you know, tits and curves.”

Arthur laughs. “Sorry about not being a girl. As for the other thing, I quite like to think the boss thought I was good at construction work and that's why he hired me.”

Gwaine cupped his own chest as if to stem some imaginary blood flow. “What, and deprive me of my benefactor role? I'm wounded, mate. Wounded.”

“Shut up!” Arthur places a hand before his mouth to hide his smile, an arm crossed over his chest and propping up his elbow.

“Why? Just because I'm not Merlin? I can't be constantly singing your praises like he does.”

“Merlin doesn't.”

Gwaine scoffs. “Please, Merlin thinks you're the second coming.”

Arthur's cheeks bloom with heat. “He doesn't.”

“Nah, so he does.”

They'd quibble over that for longer if someone hadn't knocked on the door they've left open to facilitate the transfer of Arthur things. They cock their eyebrows at each other and edge down the narrow corridor and towards the hall.

They find Mr Taliesin on the threshold, dressed in one of his impeccable suits with nary a crease. It's a charcoal grey one this time, similar to a dozen other he owns. He's got a pile of folders tucked under one arm, the other still lifted in a fist in case he need knock again.

“Arthur, Gwaine,” he says, “can I come in?”

Arthur moves some of his crap out of the way so Mr Taliesin won't be forced to step over his things.

Gwaine says, “Yes, sir. Sure, sir,” and Arthur almost suspects him of wanting to salute he's standing so rigid, insouciant leer gone.

Crates moved, Arthur straightens. “Sir?” he says, eyeing the folders Mr Taliesin is carrying with a measure of mistrust. “Has something happened?”

It's not everyday that you see Mr Taliesin step out of the confines of the Round Table. At least not when it's not about cultivating contacts on behalf of the children's home.

Arthur knows he must have a home of his own somewhere, but he's never imagined him actually inhabiting it. Considering how much time he spends elsewhere he must never be there. To see him here is even more fantastical than to imagine him in a putative space of his own.

“No,” says Mr Taliesin stepping inside. “Since you've moved out I thought it incumbent on me to update you on the Special Guardianship order you applied for.”

Arthur's stomach lurches. “Is anything wrong with it? Mrs Caerleon said everything was fine. And that two months ago.”

Mr Taliesin eyes Gwaine and then his glance falls on Arthur. “There's nothing wrong with it. I just thought we should discuss the various steps involved.” Mr Taliesin throws a look at Gwaine's cluttered table then he tilts his head at the material he's brought. “If you're all right with it?”

Arthur decides it's high time for him to start acting like this is his place too. He clears the table and pulls a chair out for Mr Taliesin, then scowls at Gwaine – who hasn't got a head for anything legal and therefore scarpers back into his room, making himself scarce.

Mr Taliesin stalks over, sits, arches an eyebrow as if waiting for Arthur to do the same, and when he has, he starts speaking. “I'm sure Mrs Caerleon has informed you of the main points concerning your application.”

“Yeah,” says Arthur. “And I read up about the process.”

Mr Taliesin's own books if nothing else.

Mr Taliesin opens a folder. “Then you'll know what to expect.”

“Yeah,” Arthur says, overwhelmed as he tries to remember the right legal vocabulary to voice the few concerns he has. “Since I had permission of the court to apply I suppose I must wait for it to decide.”

Mr Taliesin tosses his hand about. “More or less. It's already a good thing that they've given you leave. What happens next is up to the judge, but you should be aware of the various phases all the same. It's one thing to read up about the process and another to see it unfold.”

Arthur nods.

Mr Taliesin patiently starts listing the phases of the process. “They'll investigate your suitability to become Merlin's Special Guardian.”

“Like they do with adoptive parents?” Arthur asks. He knows something of that particular process, having been an orphan kid all his life and on the other side of the fence.

“Yes and no. A social worker will look into you,” says Mr Taliesin. “They'll gather information about you.”

“Like what?” Upon first applying Arthur worried about many things, but not about the close scrutiny his life would be put under. He's embarked into this with a certain trepidation about the responsibility he's taking on but he hasn't worried about himself too much. He's done what he had because he can't think of drifting away from Merlin or letting him down. Mr Taliesin's words are opening up a new perspective. Some of it he might have expected, but not all of it. Being investigated sounds ominous.

“Regular checks,” says Mr Taliesin in a tone devised to both inform and calm. “They'll assess your suitability to care for someone else, while covering issues such as health--”

Arthur interrupts Mr Taliesin, “I'm healthy as a horse. Really. You can ask anyone. I never even tire at work." This isn't a hundred per cent true but nobody notices when he gets knackered anyway. "And can play football after.”

Mr Taliesin tips up an eyebrow. “Accommodation and CRB,” he finishes as if Arthur hadn't interrupted him at all.

Arthur tries to smile as confidently as he can. “I'm living here with Gwaine now, aren't I? It might not be a posh place but the area is not bad. We have a third flatmate so rent's assured and Merlin can have a bed and half of my room. I can provide for him just fine. I'm being paid well. And thanks to Gwen and Lance I have no criminal record at all.”

He's never been more grateful in his life for those two being the amazing people they are. Their choice not to report him to the police over the stolen money has made it possible for him to apply for Merlin's guardianship.

“Arthur.” Mr Taliesin drums his fingers on the table. “You don't have to tell me all this. I know. I'm just warning you about the topics you'll hear discussed once the report is filed.”

“I know.” Arthur ducks his head. “And I thank you. I realise you're looking out for me. It's just that I think they won't find anyone better than me to look after Merlin. Because I care. A lot. I know you do too but it's different. You have so many other kids to look after. Merlin needs someone just for him.”

Because Merlin's special and Arthur's sworn he'd never leave him behind. It was a solemn promise he doesn't mean to break.

“Even though I was surprised by you saying you wanted to go for guardianship,” Mr Taliesin says, “I'll have to admit I could think of no one who'd look after Merlin better than you. And this in spite of the mistakes you've made. Otherwise I wouldn't have vouched for you, Arthur.”

Arthur feels himself glowing at what he perceives to be praise. Pride swells inside him and he's glad he has the respect of Mr Taliesin. It makes him wish he could show him his mettle right now. Prove that he'll do his best by both the Round Table and Merlin.

He lets out the tension in his shoulders and straightens them. He lifts his head and meets Mr Taliesin’s eyes with lips proudly quirked. “Thank you.”

“It was just an assessment of fact,” Mr Taliesin says. “Now back to the subject at hand. While you know I'll supply a positive character witness for you, you'll also have to consider the final steps of the proceedings. Those I can't be responsible for.”

Arthur's attentive face is an invitation for Mr Taliesin to continue.

“Before compiling the final report the social worker assigned to your case will have Merlin interviewed by a doctor.”

“A shrink?”

“A psychologist, yes. And what they say will count just as much as what your friends have to say. It's the law.”

Arthur can't say he trusts psychologists, having been assessed by a number of them through the years and none of them having understood the least thing about him, but he guesses they're part of the process and that nobody will be able to say that Merlin doesn't want to stay with him when it's a complete untruth. “I'm not scared of that.”

“It's not a question of being scared, Arthur.” Mr Taliesin fetches a sigh. “They will consider Merlin's well being first and foremost. And it's not a given they'll think of you as the best guardian for him. You're so young yourself.”

“Merlin will be fine with me--”

Arthur'd die for him. He can't think of anyone ready to do that for Merlin.

“I know he wants to move in with you,” Mr Taliesin says. “He talks about nothing else. He's nattering about how much he wants this to happen all the time. But the psys will think of the matter in relation to his personal history, which is one of abandonment. They'll be putting his well being first, even over his wishes, though his will will be taken into account. Among other things they'll want to probe the reasons for his attachment to you. It's but normal.”

Arthur flushes at first when he considers the reasons why he and Merlin have grown so close and how they might look to a stranger who hasn't lived their life.

But then he thinks about the years he and Merlin have had together, what he and Merlin have shared in terms of experience, how they've stuck together more or less through thick and thin, and can't help but think that no one can mistake what they have for anything sordid. Cause it's not. It's never been. He's strong in that belief. “We're close because we've always had each other's back.”

“I don't doubt that,” says Mr Taliesin, “but the authorities will have to look into it. It's the procedure.”

“And once that's all done?”

Mr Taliesin says, “There will be a hearing or perhaps two before the order is approved.”

“Okay,” says Arthur. “I have Mrs Caerleon to represent me, who's fantastic even though she's representing me pro bono, and I know this is going to work out.”

Mr Taliesin pats his forearm. “I'll leave these with you,” he says, tapping a finger on the folders. “So you can read them once you've settled down into this new place of yours.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Mr Taliesin slides his chair back and rises, tugging on the folds of his jacket to smooth the creases.

Arthur leaps to his feet after him. “Would you want me to show you the place?” Arthur flicks a look at it. At its confines, limited as they are by four slightly dirty walls and a couple of windows. “What there is of it.” He doesn't say, 'What Gwaine hasn't left in shambles' because that would be like badmouthing a friend.

He shows Mr Taliesin the kitchen, his room and the communal bathroom. He introduces him to Bors, their third flatmate, a big silent man who has countless tattoos and reads Confucius when he's off work, before escorting him to the door.

“I suppose we'll see you soon since Merlin's still with us,” Mr Taliesin says before he goes.

As a matter of fact that doesn't happen. As much as he wants to, Arthur is kept busy both at work and with trying to settle in the new flat.

After taking possession of his room and spending a half sleepless night on a bed with no linen, he goes to the nearest flea market to buy some extra furniture and other necessaries to make his space habitable. And homelike.

He comes back with two boxes full of cheap stuff that still manages to be to his tastes.

He can't believe it but he somewhat misses Merlin's clutter and their things spilling together over desks, shelves, and most other surfaces. So he's got himself the minimum required to cosy up the place and recreate a similar atmosphere.

Then there's work. He's got to prove himself even though he's past the first trial stage. He depends on his job for his income and on his having an income depends the future of his application.

So it's a couple of weeks until he goes back to the Round Table.

When he gets there the sun is just slipping behind the house, a wall of shadow reaching across the lawn leading up to the main door.

The light behind it washes the rest of the building in russet tones. It makes the place look like a marzipan house out of a fairytale, a diffused halo hovering over it, mellowing its lines and hitting the pointy tips of the wrought-iron hedge of the flower beds.

Piano music plays from inside like a warbling echo. Before ringing the door bell he tilts his head at the door, wondering at the odd yet melodious sound, until it flows open and Merlin appears on the doorstep. “Been waiting for you,” he says panting like he's raced to the door. “For two weeks.”

He stands there rigid, fists gathered to his chest. It's like he's been in pain.

A smile spills on Arthur's lips and he grabs Merlin by the neck, making him stumble down the steps and into his arms. “Idiot,” is all he says.

Merlin sniffles and insults him using terms Arthur can't say he's heard before. He thwacks a hand across Merlin's back, a short sound slap, and says, “Mithian should lock you off the internet.”

“Hey,” Merlin says, brushing a sneaky kiss against his ear, “I was looking things up for school.”

“Yeah, school. That's how they call it now, is it?”

And just like that it's like those two weeks haven't passed.

Merlin drags him in and pushes him into the common room where some of the other kids are. One of them, the source of the piano music, is a new face. Merlin introduces him as Mordred, his new roomie, and great player.

Mordred is as silent as a ghost and barely acknowledges Arthur at all, preferring to strum along on the piano with his head ducked.

Mordred not being sociable, Arthur and Merlin decide to find a corner to themselves. They sit cross legged by the coffee table, playing draughts and catching up.

Merlin asks questions about what it's like to live and work with Gwaine.

“You develop patience.”

“I've heard it's a virtue.”

"Strangulation would be much more satisfactory."

"Arthur! I never made you out to be so violent."

Arthur thraws a spit ball at him made from a ripped piece of paper they've thus far used to keep score of the number of games they've each won. "Shut up, stupid."

Merlin also enquires about the new flat and Arthur's by now legendary boss.

Arthur doesn't tell him how tired he gets at the end of the day; tired enough to almost look back with longing at his school days, tired enough to just lie back and fall asleep without formulating one coherent thought.

But he tells him about the things he's learning, the friends he's making. How hard getting accepted has been since he's the youngest worker on the crew. But how he thinks they now like him a bit more than before.

He tells him about how he's no longer shut down when he makes suggestions about this or that and how that causes him to feel like a giant.

“Once the boss even took up one of my ideas about redoing a partition wall.”

“I knew you'd be great at it,” Merlin tells him with conviction. How Merlin can be convinced is a bit of a mystery since he knows zilch about construction work, but then Merlin always trusts in Arthur somewhat blindly.

Arthur is warmed and flattered but he finds himself hoping Merlin isn't blinded by affection. Arthur wouldn't want that. He wants to be evaluated fairly. No favouritism applied. Not even by Merlin.

He's not sure he passes muster at work like the rest of the crew do and would like to. Aside from getting his pay he also wants to do well. To prove that he's not a waste of space. That he can complete whatever task has been assigned to him in the best way possible.

It's a question of pride. He couldn't live with himself if he were proved to be not good enough. He wants to learn how to do better and show his boss and his mates that he's quick at it. He likes the physicality of what he's doing just as much as contemplating the end results. Something he'd crafted with his bare hands. Wanting to do well comes hand in hand with that.

“You're worrying your head too much,” Merlin says, smiling widely even if he's just lost their game of draughts.

Arthur stays for dinner, Mr Taliesin and Freya insisting he do so.

After dinner -- and after the other's have gone upstairs and Mr Taliesin home – he and Merlin wind up watching telly on the sofa, the sides of their bodies a fiery point of contact, Merlin's socked foot brushing against Arthur's shoe-clad one.

They revert to their tradition: making fun of what goes on on screen and parodying it when they can. They channel hop like mad, making their viewing experience a psychedelic, messy one, images superimposing themselves upon other images in garish splats of colour ill reproduced by the ancient TV set.

Until Merlin's stomach rumbles and Merlin asks him to get him a pack of Twiglets from the cupboard. They're alone, the last child having succumbed to drowsiness an hour before this, so Arthur asks, “What will you do if I go?”

“Not kick you.”

“Oh, Merlin, you've grown so cold.”

“That'll teach you to disappear for two weeks.”

Arthur leans in, stretches his arm over the back of the sofa to play with the curls at Merlin's nape. “You know I never meant to.”

Merlin shrugs him off but he doesn't look angry, just pensive. “Yeah, I know.”

“It's just that I have a lot on my mind.” He shrugs an imaginary weight off his shoulders. “It's a lot right now.”

“You don't have to do any of that,” Merlin says. “If I have to lose you to get you to become my guardian, then I'd rather you came visit like Gwaine does.”

Arthur slides to the edge of his seat, puts a hand on Merlin's knee. “Merlin, it was just to start things off. I'm settled now. We're going to be great, you'll see. On my honour.”

That seems to be the magic word for Merlin lets out a tiny smile. “Go get me my Twiglets then.”

Arthur relaxes, gives Merlin's knee a pat and stands up. He pads to the kitchen without turning the lights on he knows the way so well. He lived here for such a long time there's basically no other place he remembers. This is still his home even though he lives a few miles away now.

He's startled when he finds the kitchen itself all lit up and Grunhilda, whose shift has always ended at around five or six, in there. She's hunching over in a corner, hidden in shadow.

Arthur picks his way to the cupboard and says, “Don't mind me. Just grabbing something for Merlin.”

Grunhilda steps into the light and leers. “With everyone upstairs I thought food would be the last thing on your mind. Unless it's for energy before...”

Arthur stiffens. “What do you mean?” he asks.

“Only that I know what's going on between you two.”

Arthur makes sure to complete his task, not to give anything away. He opens the cupboard door and roots for the box of bloody Twiglets that's brought him here.

“Now, now. Don't act as you don't know what I'm talking about because you've got guilt written across your forehead in big flashing letters. Like a neon sign they are.”

Arthur moves groceries aside to get at the packet.

“I'll tell, you know,” Grunhilda says.

Arthur freezes and gulps, his fingers curling around the edge of the shelf he's rifling.

“Do you think they'll let you get away with it?” she asks gleefully rhetorically. “Do you think they'll let you be the guardian of the kid you fucked when he was fifteen?”

Arthur croaks, “You know nothing.”

“I have eyes,” Grunhilda says. She has; they glint with hatred. “And ears. I've worked here for twenty years. I know.”

Arthur makes a noise that wants to be a scoff and is more like animal pain, curling his shoulders and leaning both arms against the cupboard door. He shakes his head. “Merlin wants to move in with me. He'll say that loud and clear to all the judges who'll care to listen.”

“Maybe,” says Grunhilda. “Boy's besotted. But the adults won't fall for that. They won't. They'll see it for what it is. You taking advantage.”

Arthur feels the bile rising in his mouth. “Not true,” he says. “It's not true. I've never. I never would. Not if Merlin...” He doesn't say anything else -- that Merlin wanted it -- so as not to compromise himself further but he doesn't know who he's fooling.

“But there's a solution.” Grunhilda steps closer; cocks her head at Arthur like a vulture. He supposes he's carrion. “Pay me off and nobody will be any the wiser. Nobody will know what filthy things you got up to in that room of yours.”

"I have nothing."

"You have rich friends."

"They wouldn't--"

"Then everybody will know your shame. The Court, Taliesin, that idiot girl Nemeth."

All blood drains from Arthur's face. He feels light and like he's about to crash to the floor, the dearest memories he has tainted by Grunhilda's words. She's making him and Merlin out to be dirty and horrible, unlike anything Arthur's imagined them to be.

He's aware that he should have held off touching Merlin back then, with Merlin just a little shy of sixteen. He knows that the worst possible spin could be put on his actions. But he's never thought of them as something negative in themselves.

When he was at school many of his mates had had sex before they'd hit the sixteen mark. And nobody minded. Hell, Gwaine claims to have been way younger.

Arthur's kept their relationship a secret to avoid censure; because he knew instinctively that other people knowing would be bad. They'd think in terms of the worst case scenarios, not about him and Merlin and all their history together.

It had to be a secret then, as they waited for the legal age of consent. But he doesn't regret a touch or a kiss. Or having come together with Merlin that time on the night of his birthday. He can't bring himself to.

He needs to think them innocent and perfect. Because the memories he has are something like a life line. Merlin is. The one good thing he's had. As much as he's missed his parents or the thought of having parents, he can now say he wouldn’t have wanted to have any other life than the one he's had. One where he didn't grow up with Merlin is impossible to picture.

But Grunhilda's shaking his foundations, making a monster of him. Of what he feels. What he's done. What he thinks of as something fundamentally good because how can something that sends his heart lurching with happiness be bad?

He trembles; he shakes. His blood pounds in his ears, loud like a river about to spill over its banks. His heart double thumps in his chest and every thump hurts.

He feels like he can't bear stringing two thoughts together because they're too painful. Especially if by thinking he should come to condemn his own actions. Actions that Arthur thinks have changed his life in a way he doesn't want to regret. Merlin's all his got. The best thing he's got. His best friend of all.

Arthur's stomach roils; he's sure he's going to puke. He grabs at the Twiglets and makes a hasty exit out of the kitchen.

Grunhilda's words, “Remember what I said,” follow after him.

 

*****

 

Arthur slams right into Merlin as he careens out of the kitchen.

Merlin says, “Whoa, Arthur, did you go exploring the North Pole?” He makes a grab for the Twiglets and Arthur lets the packet fall into his waiting hands.

“No,” Arthur says, raking his hands through his hair. He can't stop his thoughts. “No, I--”

Merlin tips his head to the side, his smile dying on his lips. “Arthur, are you feeling all right? You've gone very pale.”

Arthur leans against the sofa, bracing an arm against the rest. He closes his eyes, opens them, tries to focus because he can see Merlin's getting worried but can't quite. Nausea is still welling up his insides.

Grunhilda's words are still ringing in his ears. But he can't bring himself to share them with Merlin. He doesn't mean to hurt him with them. Merlin doesn't deserve it. He'd think he's guilty too. When he isn't. Arthur is. Definitely is since he's older.

Arthur needs to sort this out by himself. He's promised Merlin a future. He either fixes it – though he doesn't know how – or backs off without telling Merlin about Grunhilda's filth.

That's the only course of action possible if he wants to protect Merlin.

Decision more or less made, he staggers towards the door, saying, “I've got to go.”

“No, wait, Arthur, no. You're not all right!”

Arthur trips out the door, not quite knowing where to go and who to turn to.

He wanders around, chased by his thoughts. He doesn't know where he's going. He doesn't know why this had to happen right when he'd thought everything was fine. He lets his feet take him wherever they might.

Some time later – not that he can account for the time lapse he's so lost in his own thoughts – he stumbles into a bar.

It's dark and airless, grubby. Apart from the random wash of orange and lime-green neons in the corners, the interior is lit only by black illumination and some light effects that affect the counter. Arthur's eyes strain to adjust.

The bar seems to stretch on forever. The furniture is modern, charcoals, whites and blacks all over; the counter is made of some kind of laminated material that reflects what little light there is and hurts Arthur's eyes with its steely glare. Behind the shelves are stocked with a large assortment of bottles.

There's a faint smell of stale beer in the air and drum music is tapping in the background.

Arthur hops up on a stool, and smiles drily at the bartender, who's wiping glasses and sipping at a beer of his own.

He asks for a pint and has to show some form of ID before he's given it. He throws back half of it in one go but it doesn't stop his thoughts from whirling ceaselessly in his brain.

He orders another and chugs it down as fast as the contents allow.

Grunhilda's words are still haunting him. Beer is not enough to exorcise that particular ghost.

He shifts to vodka, leather-faced men watching him out of leery eyes as he knocks back one shot after another. It doesn't matter; let them think what they will.

He relentlessly bottoms up his shot glasses. Only to ask for more. For more so he won't have to face any of the implications of what Gruuhilda's said. How base she's made them out to be.

He's going to disappoint Merlin so. It will be irreparable.

He moves on to something else, something that burns his throat fast, makes his chest constrict and leaves him thinking he'll never breathe again.

He downs that drink fast, nodding for the next before the glass is back on the table.

The bartender says, “You sure, mate? You look like you're well and truly pissed.”

Arthur is. His mouth is as dry as cotton. Something is trying to burn a hole in his stomach and his thoughts are spinning. He feels hot about the face and he may have vertigo. His reflexes are slightly off and distances seem to oddly stretch and shrink each time he blinks. In the same vein objects blur in and out of focus. The bar counter looks in turns huge and Lilliputian, far and close. He's queasy; his temples are pounding like someone's drilling holes in his skull.

“Just one more,” he slurs.

The bartender looks undecided, as if he's weighing him. “Only one more, okay mate? Don't want to have the establishment closed on my ears because one of our customers died of alcohol poisoning.”

Arthur nods gratefully. The bartender pours him a measure of something amber coloured. It shines in the glass, swirling golden. It almost blinds Arthur. Until he slams it down his throat, the kick to his stomach like a stun ball. His eyes tear up but at least he isn't hearing those words anymore.

“Love woes, hey?” the bartender asks and the leathery faced men about him laugh.

“No,” Arthur says. “No.” He's drunk enough that he says it. Tells them the truth. “He loves me all right. It's just. I've disappointed him, haven't I?”

The others shut up, looking into their drinks.

Arthur almost falls off his stool asking for another little something. Anything they might give him in this state. Anything that would shut his brain up.

But then Lancelot nudges his elbow. Arthur frowns at his presence. He shouldn't be there. Should he? He wasn't there a moment before.

“Arthur,” he says. It's the nearest thing to a growl Arthur's ever heard from him. There's anger and pity in those tones. Arthur can tell because he knows pity well enough. “What the hell? What the hell! You're off your face.”

Arthur bobs his head. “Yeah. Yeah. I am.”

“Merlin called me,” Lancelot tells him, propping him up with an arm so he doesn't slide off the stool. “He said you were acting strange and looked sick. He was worried. So he called me. I called Gwaine. He mentioned a few places. I've been scouring half London to find you.”

“Half of it?”

“Yeah,” Lancelot says sternly. “And here you were all along, having a merry binge? Arthur, this is not like you. Especially not now, I think. With the guardianship--”

“The guardianship hearing is fucked, Lancelot,” Arthur says, words tumbling out of his mouth in a garbled fashion. “It's over.”

Lancelot frowns deeply. “You don't want it to go ahead anymore?”

“Grunhilda,” Arthur says, as if that's explanation enough. “Grunhilda wants money to shut up. And it's my fault. I wanted to be there for him, you see. And how can you say 'no' when he wants you like that?”

Arthur wants to impress this concept on Lancelot because it seems important. Everything hinges round it. He hopes Lancelot will understand and not think the worst of him too. Though he's sure he's going to lose Lancelot too.

“You're not making any sense,” Lancelot says, his voice kinder. “And I suspect you won't be making sense until I've put some water in you and your head under a shower.”

Lancelot attempts to help Arthur off his stool and Arthur sways right into his side. When Arthur's sure he has his feet under him, he looks up, his eyes boring into Lancelot, and makes one big, clear breast of the truth. He can't lie. He can't. Not to Lancelot. He almost did once and he's felt bad about it ever since. “Grunhilda knows I had sex with Merlin when he was fifteen and now she wants money not to tell the court.”

Lancelot shoots a panicked glance behind him and then drags him away from the bar counter. “We'll be discussing this at my place, come on.”

Arthur finds out that he can hardly stand and that he's tottering all the way to the exit, Lancelot the only force preventing him from toppling over backwards. The fresh air hitting him helps Arthur get to the car at least, into which Lancelot packs him with little ceremony.

The driver's door slams shut.

Arthur says, “I'm sorry.” He feels at one remove from anything that matters. His head seems to be wrapped in cotton and it's as though nothing holds any value anymore. Though it does, deep down, it does. His inebriated self is the outsider looking in but even that outsider can bear testimony to the collapse of his hopes. And how much this will matter once he's sober again.

Lancelot has both hands on the wheel but he's not starting the car. “I take it it wasn't drunk talk then?”

“Merlin and I,” Arthur says. He wets his lips and leans his head against the window. It's cool. “Merlin and I,” he starts again, “we fooled around a few months before he turned sixteen.”

Lancelot says, “Is that why you want to become his guardian? To have sex on tap?”

Arthur shoots upright in his seat even though the backlash is egregious. His head's pounding with even more fury now and he wants to curl around himself and die. But he says, “No! No!” with as much outrage as he can muster.

“Merlin's always been my friend. Even when I thought he was a touch addled for needing dragons,” Arthur babbles. “Though we never found that dragon. Our dragon chasing days were soon over.”

Arthur realises he's saying things that must make no sense to Lancelot. Lancelot not having been there back in the day doesn't help. Perhaps a logic string would help too. Or maybe he's got to pare it down to the essentials.

“I've got him here.” He thumps his heart; at least he believes his coordination isn't so shot that he's missed it. “And we're together now. Like you're with Gwen. That's it. There'll never be anybody else. And that's it.”

“Like Gwen and I, you're saying?” Lancelot asks. “We were never a fumble,” he says sternly. “We were together for years before we got married. And we've always respected the laws.”

Arthur is too drunk for this but he tries anyway. “But you're perfect. And I'm not. Always fall short. But I'm serious about Merlin. I want to do my best by him. And I'm so sorry but we did that that one time and then we waited for him to be legal. I just-- I was so stupid but that doesn't mean Merlin deserves to be left alone at the Round Table. Like I was. Before Merlin came.”

“Arthur, I'm sorry that was ever the case, but this stretches the limit a bit, doesn't it?”

“No,” Arthur says. “No it doesn't. I don't think it does. We just--”

He doesn't finish that sentence. His stomach roils, he opens the door and pukes his guts out.

Lancelot helps as much as he can, handing him tissues and a bottle of water he's got stashed in the glove box.

After that it seems clear that any form of serious discussion will have to be postponed. Lancelot turns the key in the ignition and drives off.

Arthur closes his eyes for a minute or two and when he reopens them he finds that he isn't at home but parked in front of Lancelot's house.

He blearily sits up; Lancelot opens the door for him and, having slipped a shoulder under his arm, walks him into his house.

Gwen asks her husband what's happened and Lancelot says, “I hardly think he's up to explaining again. I'll tell you once I've put him to bed.”

With Lancelot's support Arthur negotiates the stairs. Going up is worse than walking on level ground for everything starts spinning again.

Luckily, Lancelot drops him onto the bed. He barely has time to register where the bed is – in the room Lancelot and Gwen would have destined for him if he'd come live with them – than he's out like a light.

He wakes to Merlin dabbing his forehead with a wet towel. He groans; his temples are throbbing like drums. He's thirsty; his face aches. The light hitting his pupils hurts him. He turns his head away from the window and squints up at Merlin. He remembers enough of yesterday night to ask, “What are you doing here?”

Merlin wallops him with the towel. “Well, I was worried silly. Then I called Lancelot and he told me he'd find you. I told Mithian you were sick and with Lance and she let me come. End of story.”

“Oh,” Arthur says. “That makes sense.”

“Yeah.” Merlin wallops him again. “What doesn't is what you did. You couldn't have chosen a worst moment.”

Arthur gets it. He's under scrutiny from Child Protection Services now and he shouldn't be seen as he goes on a drinking spree, but he's fucked already anyway. He and Merlin both are.

Not to mention that he might end up in prison. The drinking quite pales in comparison. “I couldn't have chosen a more perfect one.” He scrubs a hand down his face. “Merlin, I've bollocksed everything up. I don't think...” He swallows; his tongue feeling too big in his mouth. “I don't think the guardianship ruling is going to lean in our favour.”

“Because of Grunhilda?”

Arthur sits up, waves of dizziness enveloping him. “Who told you?”

“Lancelot did,” Merlin says. “He said you dumped this whole lot of info on him when you were sloshed but he didn't think you were lying.”

Arthur goes cold from head to toe. “I wasn't.” His shoulders sag. “She's blackmailing me. Merlin, you realise that it's over, don't you?”

“Maybe,” Merlin says levelly. He puts away the towel, folding it on top of the night-stand. “Maybe not. We can't tell for sure.”

“Merlin--” Arthur doesn't want to tell Merlin the worst but he can't keep him hoping. “You really think a judge would let us go through with it?”

“I'm not that qualified to answer that question,” Merlin says. “But I know someone who is. Your solicitor is downstairs.”

Arthur's mouth falls open. Maybe he's still a bit slow from yesterday but he can't see how Mrs Caerleon can be there. “She can't be here. How could Lancelot have contacted her? He doesn't know her.”

“I snooped into your mobile,” Merlin says, dragging him off the bed. When Arthur gets vertical and a bit wobbly on his feet Merlin supports him. One of his hands goes to his chest, fingers fanned wide; he wraps his other around Arthur's middle. “I thought it was a bit of an emergency.”

“It is,” Arthur says, burying his head in Merlin's neck and breathing him in. “You did okay.”

“I know I did.” Merlin's hand travels upwards and he palms Arthur's neck. “I'll tell them, you know. That it was never your fault. That I wanted it and I'll want it forever.”

“I don't think they'll care about that. The law says different.”

“I don't care about the law,” Merlin tells him. “They can't tell me what to do about the person I love. They can't." He makes sure Arthur notices how sure he is of his words. "Now come downstairs.”

Arthur follows him meekly enough, his step slow and unsure, his thoughts still churning in a way not conducive to logic.

He finds Gwen, Lancelot, Mrs Caerleon and tiny Galahad in the living room, all of them sitting round the coffee table, barring the little one.

Shame becomes a physical sensation for Arthur as he remembers – in patches – what happened yesterday. It grows inside him as he watches them study him with reproach. He stands his ground though. He squares his shoulders and waits for the volley of accusations.

He's broken the law, fucked with it. They probably think he's perverted Merlin or something. Forced him.

The thought is unbearable really. Not if they knew how he views Merlin. How he only wants to protect him. With everything he has.

No accusations come and Arthur breaks down. “I'm sorry,” he says. “It's all my fault and I'm ready to take full responsibility for whatever happens.”

Mrs Caerleon says, “I won't hide the fact that this is a problem. And a big one. And I won't say you haven't committed an offence. Because you have.”

“I know.” Arthur swallows. “I know. I'll take all the blame and the punishment that goes with it.”

“Wait.” Merlin steps forward. “He hasn't. I was willing. I did it. I did it all. You might even say I forced him.”

Arthur says tiredly, “Don't lie, Merlin. They'll get it." He studies his audience, and shoulders hunched, reconstructs how it went. "It was my birthday and... things got a bit out of control. I said it was inadvisable but then I gave in because I wanted it to happen. So I'm guilty.”

Mrs Caerleon shakes her head and fixes her eyes on Merlin. “Let me get this straight. I have it from hearsay but what I do gather is that you and Arthur had some kind of sexual intercourse when you were fifteen, Merlin?”

They both nod, Merlin proudly so, the idiot. Lancelot takes Gwen's hand in his. Galahad plays on with his Legos undaunted.

“Then even though you were willing, Merlin, Arthur risks from 6 months to 5 years in prison.”

Merlin shouts, “No, no way he does! It was my fault! I egged him on. Come on, that's stupid. I've always known what I wanted.”

Arthur feels light headed and like tumbling down.

Mrs Caerleon raises a placating hand. “That said, considering the minimal age difference between you two, I doubt a judge would prosecute. If they did they'd have to have a conspicuous number of teens arrested.”

Merlin exhales; Arthur's nerves are so on end he can't bring himself to.

“Now as to your application, that stands much more precariously.”

“I can see that,” Arthur says.

“As for Grunhilda,” Mrs Caerleon says, “Blackmail is a crime and I'm not going to allow that to stand.”

“If Arthur reports her to the police though, the under-age sex issue will come up,” says Lancelot. “Now that was foolish but I hardly believe Arthur deserves five years for that." He looks reproachfully at Arthur and Merlin. "They're just idiot teenagers.”

Mrs Caerleon gives Lancelot a curt smile. “I'll do my best to help on that score. Keeping the specifics under wraps seems the best choice. Not everybody has started having sex when they should and most people haven't suffered for it. But that won't be possible until we tackle the Grunhilda question. As to the how: we'll inform her about her position in regards to the law.”

“And you think that'd convince her?” says Gwen. “You think that knowing she's on the wrong side of the law will make her change her mind?”

Arthur knows it won't.

Mrs Caerleon answers, “Some criminals get cocky when they perceive weakness.” Before Arthur can object to being called weak, she turns to him and continues, “Think about it; she knows that you want the application to go through. She's realised how badly you want it. How badly Merlin does. You have no form of protection to fall back on. You're an orphan yourself. You're the perfect victim. Prey. And that is something I can't stomach.”

“So what do you propose we do?” Lancelot asks.

“We represent to her the dangers of what she's doing. How the maximum sentence for blackmail is fourteen years,” Mrs Caerleon explains.

“And that should stop her?” Arthur asks, not sure he's buying that it will.

“Call her,” Mrs Caerleon says, looking around the room for a phone. “Tell her Mr du Lac has given you the money and it's a go. You just don't want her to spill the beans. So you want to meet her to settle this.”

“But--” Merlin begins.

“Trust me.” Mrs Caerleon's jaw is pushed determinedly forward. “I know what I'm doing.”

Arthur does as he's told even though he's never been more tense in his whole life. His back is so rigid it feels it's about to snap and his fingers hesitate over the number dial. He trusts in Mrs Caerleon's expertise on legal matters but he can't help but feel as though he's out of his depths.

When he phones the Round Table he gets Grunhilda on the phone. An odd stroke of luck that yet makes him tremble with disgust. He recites his script, tells her he's got the money for her because he's opened up to Mr du Lac and Mr du Lac has agreed to help. It's not much, he says, and she can't negotiate for more. But if she wants it and she won't spill the beans, there's eight thousand pounds for her.

They fix on a meeting place. The old pub down the road from the Round Table. Grunhilda tells him to be there, “The day after tomorrow at half past eight.”

He relays the message to the others and they sit around the coffee table to plan.

Those are the two longest days of Arthur's life. He works like an automaton, barely eats, barely sleeps. Merlin's phone calls alone keep him going. Because Merlin keeps talking about small, matter of fact things. Every day subjects that infuse him with hope. Because it's Merlin and he's got him in spite of everything. In spite of how much of an idiot he's been.

Merlin tells him that Mrs Caerleon's plan will work and that they'll do as she says regarding the application. He promises Arthur he'll fight for it. They'll fight for it. “You'll see. We'll be great all the same. I'm only sorry I can't be there when you meet Grunhilda. Every time I bump into her I just want to confront her.”

“Don't,” Arthur says. “Remember the plan.”

“I won't. But just because of you. Just because you're the goal.”

On the fateful day Arthur gets off work half an hour before he's due to, a half hour his boss grants him because, he says, Arthur looks like shit.

Arthur's scarcely ever been to the pub Grunhilda indicated though he walked before it many a time when he was a Round Table resident.

Inside it's as Arthur might have expected it to be if he'd based his suppositions on an outside panoramic. In short it's scruffy but clean, all the surfaces wood, as is the door leading in.

The place is packed; people sitting around booths and tables, perching on the stools lined up by the counter. There's noisy chatter everywhere and the heat is almost overwhelming.

Arthur steals a glance to the corner and smiles, reassured. He then looks around the room and spots Grunhilda. He takes his place in front of her.

She's nursing a beer but she's not drinking it. It's clearly there for show. To give her something to do.

When he appears in front of her, she eyes his pockets speculatively; her eyes rove over the bulge in the front of his jeans jacket, while she scowls at the emptiness of his other pockets.

“I have the eight thousand,” he says. “But before I give it to you, we have to spell it out again. You'll understand if I don't trust you.”

She grunts and squints evilly up at him. “What do you want me to say?”

“I want to go over the terms again.” He clutches at the table; nerves on end. “To be on the safe side. It's eight thousand pounds I'm parting with.”

“I'm sure there's more where that came from,” she says maliciously. Her eyes shine with greed. He reminds himself that he can't strangle her however much he's tempted. He just must make her state her terms. He must cause her to. “No there isn't,” he says. “Mr du Lac's being kind enough as is. Now indulge me.”

“I want eight grand for my silence.”

“And you won't mention the fact I had sex with Merlin before the court?”

She huffs. “Why should I when I'm getting paid to keep my gob shut?”

“Right, so you're promising not to ruin me?”

“I'd love to ruin you, boy,” Grunhilda says. “I've always hated you. You and Merlin too. But I love myself more. Give me the money and you'll buy my silence. Ride off into the sunset. Don't and I'll tell.”

“You couldn't be moved not to tell without the money, could you?” Arthur makes his voice loud and clear, enunciates as well as he ever has.

She breaks into a peal of nasty laughter. “Of course not, you imbecile. Buy my silence and you'll be all right. Sit on the money and you'll cry your days out in prison.”

Arthur smirks. “Thank you,” he says, extracting the recorder from his pocket. “That was all I wanted to hear.”

Grunhilda jumps to her feet, trying to make a grab for the recorder, but Arthur's younger and faster, his reflexes perfectly honed by years of football. He snatches it back right as Mrs Caerleon moves over from her corner table.

She folds herself in the seat next to his. “Good evening, Mrs Dixon,” she says. “A pleasure to catch you red-handed, so to speak.”

“Who are you?” Grunhilda barks.

“Arthur's solicitor. The one who's going to report you to the police for blackmail.”

“You can't.” Grunhilda seems to relax, her body sinking against the back of her chair. “If you do he'll go to prison with me and it's not something a lawyer would do to her client. I know my lawyers.”

Mrs Caerleon pats Arthur's shoulder. “Arthur's not much in danger of anything. No judge will convict since he was a 17-year-old at the time and the age difference is inconsequential. You must know they check such things before sentencing someone. You'll find the court will be lenient with him.”

Mrs Caerleon pauses. It's as if she's enjoying the suspense she's created.

“Blackmail on the other hand can be thought of as worse than a teen behaving like one; especially in this case since you're preying on orphans. Think how bad that'll look.” Mrs Caerleon starts showing off her legal knowledge. “Under the 1968 Theft Act making unwarranted demands with menaces with a view to making a gain or causing a loss can get you a maximum sentence of 14 years.”

A little airily Mrs Caerleon adds, “In fact if the accused is proved to be aware of the effect of their actions on the victim, of their power over them--” She glances at the recorder. “Then they've just bought themselves a solid ticket to jail. Do not pass go.”

Grunhilda goes green; she goggles. “You can't,” she says.

“You'll see that we can,” Mrs Caerelon says. “Why should Arthur have any regard for you?”

“But he's got his own share of blame!”

“Arthur is fully prepared to admit to what he's done.” Mrs Caerleon cocks her head. “Are you?”

Grunhilda stands up, sending her pint glass flying. She spits at Arthur, hitting him on the cheek with a sticky gob of spit, and curses him with words Arthur can't say he's ever heard before. “You've won this time. But you won't all the time. You'll lose that boy one day. You will.”

Arthur wipes at his cheek. A muscle in his jaw jumps, his fingers making a fist.

Mrs Caerleon puts her hand on top of Arthur's and says, “She's gone now. And lucky too that she is. If she hadn't bought it things might have got more complicated for you, boy.”

Arthur does a double take. “What do you mean?”

Mrs Caerleon plays with the paper serviette that delineates her place. “Nothing. Just that we couldn't have proven the blackmail. The recording wouldn't have stood in court as proof at all. Not unless we had her previous consent to the recording.”

“But it was a trick,” Arthur says, dismayed. “We didn't. She didn't know we were recording her.”

“Exactly,” says Mrs Caerleon. “And we would have never got an injunction to validate it as proof. As it is, it's lucky she bought it.”

Arthur doesn't know whether he wants to laugh or cry. He does neither but it's a close call.

The day of the hearing falls on a Wednesday the following month. Arthur's suited up, Merlin's come from school so he's wearing his uniform and dragging his rucksack along.

He's made an effort to comb his hair back – must have slicked it – and stands upright as they file inside. Like a soldier.

Like this he moves Arthur's heart in a way Arthur knows not to be wrong. It's a larger than life feeling. It's why he's fighting for him.

As they file into the courtroom, Arthur feels a chill lick at his spine. This is it, then. This is the day everything's decided.

The Judge comes is; he's square and forbidding, dressed in a black silk robe and a big woolly white wig. It looks like dog's ears.

Everybody stands. Mrs Caerleon says low in his ear, “That's Mr Justice Roland.”

Mr Justice Roland takes his seat upon the bench.

Everybody sits back down again.

The judge explains that he's read the CPS' report and that he wants to hear the witnesses for himself in light of some of the particulars that have emerged from his investigation of it.

Arthur knows that their coming clean about him and Merlin being in a relationship has moved the judge to that decision. Mrs Caerleon warned them that admitting to that fact would make the authorities rethink some of their previously held views but that it would be prudent in the long run in case it came out.

Mr Roland wants to hear from Merlin himself.

Arthur holds his breath as Merlin goes to take the stand.

Judge Roland puts him at his ease and tells him to be candid with the court. “The point of today's exercise is doing what is best for you, Merlin.”

Merlin nods. “All right.”

“Merlin, you know that we're here to decide whether you're to spend the last year of your minority under Mr Pendragon's guardianship or not. I have the CPS's psychological evaluation of you. Another one had Mr Pendragon as its subject. We have gathered character witnesses from the people who have raised you both. We also have the testimony of your school teachers and peers. Our investigation has been thorough. Now I want to hear it from you. Why do you want Mr Pendragon to become your guardian?”

“Arthur's always looked out for me,” Merlin says, catching Arthur's eyes meaningfully. “Since I was four. He's constantly helped me. Protected me. Been my friend. The best and most trustworthy one I've ever had. He's a good man, a really good man, and I look up to him. That's why.”

The judge scratches at his ear, right were his wig chafes his skin. “Right.” He thumbs through the file at his elbow. “Right. But you also told the social workers from the CPS that you are Arthur's boyfriend now. You're very nearly seventeen, Merlin, you understand why I'll have to ask this question. Do you really think the relationship you and Arthur are in is consistent with a guardianship application?”

Merlin's about to answer this – they've decided that none of what he says ought to be rehearsed, to let his natural confidence in Arthur shine through – when Grunhilda slips in and takes a seat behind Arthur.

Arthur's stomach twists itself in knots. In such a moment it's hard to put all his fears by and Grunhilda reminds him of the worst that can happen.

Merlin gives him and Mrs Caerleon a panicked look. He also engages Lancelot and Gwen's gazes.

The judge notices for he frowns but waits patiently for Merlin to begin.

Since Grunhilda hasn't interrupted the hearing, Merlin wets his lips, gnawing on his lower one, before he takes the plunge.

“I don't want Arthur to become my guardian because he's my boyfriend. I want him to because I trust him more than anyone. The people at the Round Table have done a fantastic job with me. I'd have been lost without them. But Arthur's different. We've shared everything from the beginning.”

With Grunhilda's silence, Merlin grows more confident, his voice warm and serene, convincing.

“He knows what it's like to be a parent-less kid. No one else but one who is can. That's why I want this. Because Arthur's the best help I can get. I hope I can continue turning to him for help and advice as I've always done. I hope this court allows me to.”

Merlin meets Arthur's eyes.

“Because I trust Arthur with everything I've got. Because he's my friend. And if he's my boyfriend, too, that's not really as important as all the rest that's between us. The years that have gone by. He sort of raised me while he raised himself. And that's special. A special relationship that we have. Nothing compares to that.”

“Thank you, Merlin,” the judge says kindly.

He calls other witnesses and lets Mr Taliesin, Mithian, two of Merlin's teachers, and Lancelot speak. It lasts for more than an hour. Then Mr Justice Roland retires to his own room, leaving Arthur shaking, and the rest of them filing out of the courtroom.

There's a hum of voices, all talking to him, Grunhilda's presence burning him, his solicitor bumping shoulders with him to show him her support. Still Arthur can't take the tension that gnaws at his stomach.

He dashes to the toilets where he pushes his face under the tap, wetting his hair, cooling his flaming face. He's gripping the basin's sides, knuckles as white as the porcelain around them, when the door opens.

Merlin comes in. “I'd thought to find you here.”

Arthur straightens, dripping droplets of water, going for the paper towels.

“It's all right if you're scared witless,” Merlin says. “You don't always have to be the cool one. No matter what I said about you raising me.” He winks at him. “Let me score cool points too.”

“Merlin--” He flaps his hands about. “She's here.”

“We came clean about being together,” says Merlin. “And if she speaks up, we'll figure out when she does, but maybe she won't.”

Arthur smiles through his wet fringe, inclining his head. “When have you become wise, Merlin? I didn't think you were.”

“I'm full of surprises,” Merlin says with a goofy grin. He reaches a hand out to Arthur. “Now let's go back. Let's hear what Mr Justice Roland has to say about us.”

Arthur has a lump in his throat. He starts towards Merlin and tucks him against his chest. “However this goes,” he says, “whatever that man in there says, I'll always be there for you. I promised once and I never break my promises.”

Merlin sniffs against the side of his neck. “I know,” he says. “It'll be all right.”

Arthur's not sure he believes it. That either of them do, but the make their way back trying to boost each other's morale with silly jokes.

The judge returns to the courtroom, taking his place. Everybody stands, taking Mr Justice Roland's cue to "Please be seated,” to sit down again.

Mr Justice Roland sums up the case, his words sounding meaninglessly in Arthur's ear even though Arthur knows the in and outs of it himself and none of this should sound so foreign. He supposes nerves can do that to you.

The judge adjusts his spectacles a little fussily and proceeds to read out the verdict:

“Adequate planning for a minor's future requires adequate assessment. And that is what I think we've tried to achieve through this hearing today.

It behoves this court to do its best by Merlin Emrys, to help him meet his present needs, plan for his future, and find the best accommodation for him within the realm of what is possible.

I have to admit that reaching a decision has been hard. In the first place it's been hard because of the youth of the parties involved.

Arthur Pendragon is only eighteen himself and though he has a job, an income and acceptable accommodation to offer, we have to take his age and maturity level into account."

Arthur's heart beat starts racing. He feels disappointment coat his tongue. They're going to pronounce him unfit to be Merlin's guardian. This preamble can only be leading to that. He searches for Merlin's eyes in the courtroom and fastens his own on Merlin's. “Sorry,” he mouths.

Justice Roland pretends not to have seen him and continues.

“On the other hand maturity and chronology don't always go hand in hand. At the end of the day what counts is the person under analysis, each case being unique.

Arthur Pendragon's former carers and friends speak highly of him and Merlin Emrys himself, who's an older teen and therefore likely to know his own mind, seems to want Mr Pendragon to become his guardian.

This court has always tried to respect the minor's wishes when it's been at all possible. We want nothing better than to help along those minors who pass through this court no matter the reason.

In short, young Mr Emrys himself is no longer a child and his opinion regarding his own future should be respected.”

Merlin smiles at Arthur; it's weak but it's there.

“This said, our former concerns can't be swept aside,” the Judge says. “This is why we are allowing a split guardianship. Arthur Pendragon will be awarded guardian status along with Mr Alun Taliesin, the former carer for the child.

Arthur Pendragon will oversee Merlin's care, provide him with accommodation and board, for which he will be awarded financial support in the amount of 400 pounds per month, while Mr Taliesin will handle Merlin Emrys'....”

Grunhilda leaves, looking daggers at him.

Arthur doesn't hear a word more. He's made it. Merlin's moving in with him.

After the hearing, after the celebration, the others disperse and he and Merlin only remain.

They cross the street hand-in-hand to the threadbare park, tree leaves glistening blue in the light from the street lamps and melting dark into the dusk of evening, cherry trees looking ragged in their corners.

They stop in a lane, look in each other's eyes and Arthur says, “So we're in this together now?”

Merlin takes his lips in a soft kiss. “We've always been.”

****

 

Merlin moves on top of Arthur, crashing his body along his, his cock rising gently between his legs. His muscles almost strain for contact with Arthur's. He slides their groins together and Arthur has to fight his instinct to respond.

“Merlin,” he says, hiding the little groan that escapes his lips by using a blustery tone, his hands at Merlin's hips. “Really, Merlin, this is not working. You're not distracting me.”

Merlin nuzzles his head in Arthur's neck. “Doesn't feel like that to me,” he says with a press of his hips.

Arthur circles his arms around Merlin, locking them around him so he can't move much. “I'm serious. You're predicted three As, Merlin. I want you to go to uni.”

“I don't want to leave you,” Merlin mutters against his skin. His cock flags; his body goes heavier. “I don't want to.”

Arthur doesn't want to say it but he guesses it's what he's meant to say. He needs to look out for Merlin like he's always done. Give good, impartial advice.

“You are doing so well, Merlin. It'd be crazy not to continue. And you could go do that Social Work BA you were looking into last month. Christ Church Uni and Glyndwr would take you. You've got a conditional acceptance. It'd be so stupid if you were to give it up for me.”

“You matter more to me than a uni course ever will,” Merlin huffs against his Adam's Apple. “And you did the same thing. You never went. You never tried engineering yourself.”

Arthur slaps Merlin's arse. “But I might one day. And you needn't postpone.” Arthur's voice sobers. “I've heard you talk to Mithian. I know that's what you want to do. Be like her. Help kids like us. I know you've found your passion.”

“I'd like to do that theoretically but--”

Arthur rakes a hand through Merlin's hair. “Go for it,” he says. “I'll be waiting, I swear to God.”

Merlin goes on a crisp clear September morning, heading for Wales and his future.

The sky is cloudless and blue, the air chills a shock to their skin, a nip to it that wakes you right up, despite early trains and earlier waking calls.

At first Arthur fears Merlin will forget him, involved as he will be with making new friends, tackling new issues, and studying subjects that will open up a bright future for him. A future that doesn't involve his past at all. Merlin never need mention the Round Table again. Merlin never need look back on his past as an orphan.

The humiliation of it and the loss. He'll never need encounter those odd stares again that tell you you’re different and that your life experiences don't make sense to a wide portion of the average population.

Merlin never need look back and think of Arthur, the days at the Round Table when they hid in the tree-house, or their crying for parents that weren't there.

Merlin goes on a bright morning, the sun pale in the sky and Arthur thinks that's the beginning of the end.

But it isn't. For however much Arthur resigns himself to hearing of new friends and being forgotten in the bustle of Merlin's new life, a life Arthur has no way to understand, that doesn't happen.

Merlin's too affable not to make friends at all. But he never forgets Arthur either. He comes back every other weekend. And when he can't he writes e-mails and texts him doggedly.

His texts make Arthur hoot with laughter even while he's at work, perched on a ladder, precariously attached to some piece of scaffolding. Which has his boss barking, “Careful, Pendragon,” and telling the others on the crew, “He has it bad, don't he?”

Months pass and Merlin writes to him about essays, courses, and cramming sessions with his friends. He tells him about the coffee shop job he lucked out on and the library employee who hates him like the plague.

Once when Merlin comes back – it's a bank holiday and they've planned a weekend out to the beach, one they mean to spend as they did when they were in Torbay – Arthur tells Merlin that it's okay if he finds a new love.

Someone else. Arthur understands separation and how hard it is. And if Merlin wants – if Merlin needs someone who isn't him to hold him close while Arthur can't – it's okay by him. It's in the books.

It's their first serious row. Merlin asks him, “Then I should expect you to be getting it on with one of your co-workers. All those builders with their shirts off. Are you?”

“That's ridiculous,” Arthur barks. “That's mental. You know there's only ever been you. I promised that it would be that way and it'll always be that way!”

“Then why can't you believe the same of me?”

Arthur doesn't hear from Merlin for two months after that. It's Grunhilda's curse maybe. Maybe she was right and Arthur was fated to lose Merlin from the get go.

But then one night Merlin knocks on his door, drenched like a drowned rat, clothes sticking to his frame, which has got sparer, his ribs showing. “I never wanted to lose you," he thunders, arms rigid, hands ending in fist. "I don't want to.”

“You haven't lost me,” Arthur says, pulling him into his room, peeling the clothes off him as they go.

They make love like two desperate souls, like stars on a collision course, hurried, frantic, rough.

Merlin goes back to Wales the morning after – there's lessons and tutorials he's missed to go find Arthur and he will have to kiss some arses to get back in his tutors' good graces – but their relationship is mended.

The three years of Merlin's BA pass quickly and slowly both. The day to day drudgery of them is terrible. Arthur rolls on his side in bed alone and looks to the window, picturing Merlin in his room, far away, revising, his head bent over a book. And he misses him like he would a lost limb.

But Arthur plans for the future too, so sometimes time seems to get away from him at the speed of light. He enrols into an Access course to get the A levels he failed on as a student; he works everyday from morning to evening and spends the Saturdays he's without Merlin with Gwaine and the rest of the crew from work.

He makes friends for life. Gwaine drinks and goes through women like they're candy. Bors publishes a book of poetry.

Lancelot and Gwen raise Galahad and invite him over as often as they can. Watching that boy grow up is a pleasure.

“How's Merlin?” Gwen asks.

And Arthur says, “He's fine. He's... coming into his own.”

Gwen continues hanging up her washing on the line, one piece next to another. “He loves you, you know. And the way he does it... it's a rare thing. I'm a little bit in awe sometimes.”

“What do you mean?” Arthur asks, tearing his gaze away from her to settle it on the wicker basket containing the rest of the washing.

“I mean that you should remember that.”

“I do.”

She smiles. “Then it's all right, isn't it?”

One Christmas Arthur goes visit Merlin in Wales. They share a single bed in the uni buildings. They don't initiate anything, Merlin's room-mate being too close and his sleep too light, but they doze off wrapped around each others like dogs in a litter.

The next day Merlin takes him on a tour of the campus and to his favourite café. “Shush, it's not the one I work at.”

They share meals, go for a bike ride with Merlin singing an appropriate Queen song, Merlin bumping into friends and acquaintances at every turn.

And all the time he's holding onto Arthur's hand, touching him, kissing him, introducing him as 'Arthur, my boyfriend who's in London.”

They go to a concert that ends at dawn and fall asleep on the grass in the parkland area outside the venue. Their bones ache when they wake and they might have got a cold for their pains. The sun tickles at their skin and though it doesn't warm them, it lifts Arthur's heart.

Arthur muzzles Merlin's neck like a blind puppy looking for its mother's milk. He's a hungry whelp today. He buries a laugh into Merlin's skin at the thought.

Then, moved by a feeling he can't define, he locks their fingers together, both of them lying on their sides, Merlin's body facing the concert tents they're dismantling, Arthur' curled around him, his knees bumping the back of Merlin's legs. Arthur's fingers pick at Merlin's hair. “This is good. It's good being with you like this.”

“I know,” Merlin says. “That's because I'm great company.”

“Shut up, you idiot. I see you haven't changed one bit.”

“You wouldn't want me to, would you?” Merlin purrs. 

The rest of the morning is lost to kissing.

As it turns out, Merlin's room-mate and his friends accept him as one of them, as the bloke, “Merlin speaks constantly about. God, I think he rendered your eye colour to a T.”

All of a sudden Arthur doesn't find Merlin's uni world so extraneous. Maybe he could give it a shot himself. Merlin just clutches his hand, gives him an eggnog latte from Starbucks, and says, “I know what you're thinking.”

The three years of Merlin's BA come to an end on a July evening. Mithian and Arthur are due to pick him up at Charing Cross. They have streamers and cards from those of their friends that couldn't come.

Merlin hops down the train bearing two carry-alls, a laptop case and a bright smile. He kisses Mithian on the cheek, Arthur on the mouth and asks after everyone he's missed. “I've got pressies from Wales,” he adds, lifting his bags.

Mithian says, “Why thank you. Now come, a pub celebration awaits you.”

They drag Merlin, bags and all, into The Swan, where the rest of their friends are waiting.

Upon seeing Merlin Gwaine says, “Ha, the man of the hour. Congratulations I hope uni didn't turn your brain to mush. Now hurry up, I was waiting for you so I could get properly pissed, as it behoves a Friday night. Fridays and sobriety don't go together.”

Merlin hugs Gwaine and tries to lift him up by his middle. He succeeds though not for long. “You haven't changed, have you?”

“Would you have wanted me to?”

Merlin pats him on the shoulder. “Nah,” he says and they all burst out laughing: Mithian, Arthur, Lancelot and Gwen, Bors.

After they've settled around a large table, they have rounds, each of them buying a pint, the whole process beginning again the moment they go back to Merlin, who bought the first.

Merlin shares anecdotes about Wales with them; he mimics his lecturers, his roomie, the library employee who hated him and is apparently delighted to have seen the back of him.

Those who've stayed in London do the same and bring Merlin up to speed about what's happened while he was away.

Lancelot and Gwen have a lot to share about eight-year-old Galahad: how he's doing in school, how good he is at drawing and arts in general, how he likes helping Lancelot mow the lawn over the weekends.

“You should come over and get my daughter to do that,” says Mithian. “Work her to a pitch of enthusiasm similar to Galahad's.”

Gwaine tells Merlin about his string of girlfriends and about his latest one in particular, a RAF para-glider who's promised to teach him to glide if he's good in bed. “Goes without saying that's hot.”

He also tells Merlin something Arthur meant to keep secret until they were alone. “Arthur here --” Enormous pat on the back that gets Arthur spluttering his beer all over the place “--got promoted at the firm. Now he's officially the boss of me. And it's worse even. He's doing a part time course at uni, imagine that. He's going to replace the boss' boss in no time.”

Merlin's head snaps round to him. “What? You didn't say!”

Arthur shrugs his shoulders. “Meant it as a surprise, for later.”

Merlin kisses him sweetly and for a moment Arthur wishes their friends gone so he could let this become far less sweet. With the thesis and all, Arthur hasn't had sex with Merlin in three months.

Mithian says, “A' propos jobs. With Mr Taliesin retiring--”

“I can't believe he is,” says Arthur, who can't really see the man do anything other but be the head admin at the Round Table. A retired man? It doesn't compute.

“With Mr Taliesin retiring,” continues Mithian, “and me stepping into his shoes, I'll need someone to cover my former position.” She arches an eyebrow. “Merlin, your interview is Thursday at ten.”

Merlin beams. “Really?”

“Yes, Merlin, you'll have to impress me on Thursday.”

Arthur doesn't think Merlin could smile more if he wanted to. His is an honest to god ear to ear grin.

Three rounds later, their friends pool around the bar counter for one last celebratory round, but Arthur drags Merlin outside. The air sparkles hot between them.

Their mouths meet and their kiss gets heavy, lips pressed against each other's lips, tongues sounding each other's mouths. Arthur's hands move up to the back of Merlin's neck just as Merlin runs his fingers through his hair and drags him closer.

“Welcome home,” Arthur says.

The future looks so very bright now.

 

The End


End file.
